


the only way to breathe is to scream

by MarionetteFtHJM



Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Child Acquisition, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier parenting, M/M, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Singer Jaskier | Dandelion, Smut, Wolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, canon typical gore, competent!Jaskier agenda, i don't take this as seriously as i probably should, implied mafia ties, no beta we die like men, there is a mansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 81,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionetteFtHJM/pseuds/MarionetteFtHJM
Summary: Forced into hiding after a rather unfortunate event with someone his family deems 'the enemy', Julian Alfred Pankratz, rising superstar singer, finds himself back in the Old Country, stuck in a decrepit mansion by his lonesome. His days are filled with endless wandering through the empty rooms and frequent visits to the wine cellar until a storm sweeps something unexpected into his back yard - a girl dressed in white with scared eyes and a bleeding arm.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609732
Comments: 121
Kudos: 727





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Welcome to me repurposing one of my old fic ideas and then having it turned on its head because i got way into the whole aspect of Jaskier's family past - ANYWAY!  
> As always, i enjoy writing this shit so much but the majority of this first part is focused on Jaskier and his troubles and his friendship with Ciri as the appeared feral child  
> i apologize for my incessant need to describe rooms and buildings i just really love europe, okay.  
> As always pay attention to the warnings in the tags and bear in mind that the next part won't be out for a little while bc i want to keep it around 25k as well so it'll take a bit to write it down  
> Enjoy the reading :D !  
> Title from Brockhampton's No Halo

“- _Once again, thank you for tuning in, this is Anya with the latest celebrity gossip, welcome, welcome everyone! Oh, do I have a spicy bit for you today; our very own Julian Alfred Pankratz has recently found himself in the news after a DUI incident! The mega popular singer rammed his brand new Lexus into a corner store last week in downtown London. Witnesses report seeing him earlier that same evening leaving one of the seedier clubs in Soho, they say that he seemed to be very emotionally distressed.”_

 _“Oh, how hard it must be, Anya, can you imagine?!”_ Laughter.

“ _Hush, Michael, I always did say all that sudden fame would go to his head eventually.”_ More laughter.

“ _Well, he can always spot_ me _some of that cash! Did you hear that he paid off the cops?”_

_“What?! No! Oh. My. God. You’re not joking!”_

_“Yes, yes! His father -”_

He turns the radio off, huffily stuffing his hands under his armpits as he leans up against the window. “Why do they even get that show here? It’s the middle of buttfuck nowhere; I would have expected the only thing that they listened to here is the local station that plays the olden Slavic hits.” 

“Sorry, phone was plugged in.” The radio turns on for a moment again before a Spotify playlist takes over the annoying talk show.

“Didn’t think you’d be into all the gossip shit.” He snorts derisively, “Thought you were _above_ all of this _popular media_ stuff, Nate.”

“I would be. If the news and the tabloids weren’t the only way your brother and I could keep an eye on you.” Nate responds levelly, deep voice rumbling in barely-concealed displeasure and Julian winces inwardly.

“Sorry.” He glances at the man driving the police car, takes in his strong profile and his large hands and thinks about how he’d probably pass the fuck out if Nate decided to smack him in the face like he deserved to be smacked.

“You’re not. I don’t want you to be.” Nate sighs, rubbing a wide palm over his face. “It’s good that you got out, made a name for yourself. But – you know. You could have called once in a while.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He feels wholly uncomfortable with all of this. Uncomfortable and cold, and terrified of the looming trees overhead. The road is abandoned and lonely, the flora is overgrown and unkempt, the pavement cracked and muddy – the whole scene is giving him very strong _horror_ vibes. He resents the whole thing. But then again, he doesn’t have much say in the situation.

“Your brother will come by once he has time.” Nate’s voice wavers a little now; it’s almost as if he knows that it’ll take a long while before Julian’s brother makes his appearance. Well, certainly not before he’s dealt with the mess Julian had left behind. Because it wasn’t just a simple DUI, no, that would have been too easy.

“If and when Val shows up, I highly doubt it will be a happy visit.” He sighs, his breath fogging up the window. He brings a hand out and draws a little sad emoji in the condensation left on the glass, effectively making himself feel worse with his own dramatics.

The winding path they are on becomes bumpier the deeper into the estate’s forest they go, and Julian has to hang on for dear life once the pavement disappears almost completely. The dense forest thins out where it meets the cast-iron, rusted fence that borders a wide berth of the old mansion grounds. The crumbling brick fence posts are missing in some places entirely so Julian will have to worry about possible intruders _eventually,_ but the main gate – that’s entirely too large and too ornate, _tacky_ – still holds true and steady. It’s not an inspiring sight either way.

Nate leaves the car to open the gate and the horrible sound of screeching metal pains his ears like nothing else ever has - and he’s attended his fair share of death core concerts and bad raves in his lifetime. He sticks his little finger into his ear and wiggles it around, trying to get the weird feeling of the sound physically scraping the inside of his skull out from under his skin.

“I'm sorry you have to do this, you know.” Nate says once he’s back in the car and driving them down the dirt path that leads to the pillars of the old, dilapidated front entrance. The door is much like the gates of the fence: large, ornate, rickety and over the top.

“I know you didn’t exactly sign up to be my makeshift parole officer, Nate, but you don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t please you to have me in a place where you know I won’t be causing any trouble.” He scoffs, pushing open the door as soon as the car comes to a halt.

“Julian, you know that’s not-” Nate’s voice trails off as he slams the door shut once more.

He looks around with distaste. The mansion’s been empty for many years now, well over thirty of them; there’re weeds growing all around and vines climbing the corners. It could have once been a beautiful summer home in the _Old Country,_ but it is well past its prime now. Nobody’s taken care of this place properly for years, and even the poor gardening job someone’s done prior to his arrival here isn’t enough to make it look like anything other than _haunted_.

“Jules,” Nate’s deep rumble makes him look up again, a frown that will hopefully convince Nate to drop the subject _and_ the childhood nickname on his face.

“Julian,” Nate amends, “You know we mean well. With the family and everything – you’ve always had a penchant for drawing too much attention to yourself. We've been worried – _I’ve_ been worried about you. I hate that they’ve made you come to this shitty place, but I can’t do anything about it; he– _the Count.._.”

“Yes, it’s always _the Count_ , isn’t it?” He grunts, moving away from the other’s large frame and towards the back of the police Range Rover where his luggage is. “The Count and his stupid fucking bald head, and his ugly fucking plaid ties – fuck him and his money!” He hisses with vitriol as he tugs one of the large suitcases out of the trunk. The case slams against the ground hard, two of the wheels breaking off on impact and scattering across the dirt. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Nate comes back around and takes the other case much more gently than Julian had the first one. “I really _am_ sorry.” The taller offers quietly and Julian breathes out in order to center himself. 

He’s known Nate for most of his life. Nate has always been like a brother to him, has always been _family_ in a way. Nate’s been there for every major event in his early life even when his actual brother, Valentin, hasn’t. Nate’s family, _he is_. But that, in and of itself, is a problem, because Julian doesn’t want to hear _sincerity right now_. He wants to be mad at every person that's ever crossed him, at everyone that isn't him because, when you really looked at it, everything _was_ his fault entirely. But – _but_. He can’t do that to Nate and his kind, sad eyes, he can't be mad at him.

“I know, Nate, I know.” He relents, looking away from the earnest expression, “It’s not your fault. It’s really good to see you again.”

“I wish it was under different circumstances,” The taller nods, understanding him with so little effort, perfectly, in a way that comes from years of knowing a person.

“Well, come on then, let’s crack this lovely, bright getaway home open.” He shuffles forward, dragging his wobbling suitcase behind him, ignoring the hunger that's adding nausea to the anxiety swirling in his belly already. 

The doors’ creak is much less menacing than the fence gates’, but it’s still not a nice sound to be greeted by. The foyer – and isn’t that lovely, he has a _foyer_ now – is dusty and wide, mostly empty. The ornate wallpaper is cracked, the paint on the banisters of imperial staircase is chipping, and the fresco on the ceiling is faded – it’s a look that speaks a lot about the state of the rest of the manor.

“Christ, this place is a fire hazard.” He runs a finger along the lone, round table that sits there under the idle chandelier and frowns at the amount of dust he picks up. “Lovely.”

“I’ll have someone sent over to clean it up a bit.” Nate coughs faintly, looking around with a frown, but Julian just shrugs.

“Why bother? It’s not like I’ll be going through every single room anyway.” He doesn’t know the layout of the house, but he figures that the bedrooms are probably on the second floor as they are often wont to do in places like this.

There’s no real hallway once you get up the stairs. There is an area at the top of the staircase that can be called a landing. It's lit up by the sunlight coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out to a marble-floored balcony. The balcony itself overlooks the little _atrium-garden-fountain space_ below and has an ornate, concrete chess table in one corner of it. On each side of that bit of ratty carpeting covering the landing are double wing doors with even more chipping, white paint on them and stained glass, half-circle transoms above. He realizes with a start that the house is U-shaped and that all of the rooms are connected by open archways - sans the bathrooms. He makes a mental note to choose the one closest to the stairs as his own for safety and convenience reasons.

“Nice view.” Nate scrunches his nose up as he stares out the window and Julian agrees. There’s a large lawn yard beyond the fountain, further out back there is another set of fancy gates in the crumbling fence. Beyond that, though, there is a more of that dense forestry where trees doesn’t let much light through the canopy. It’s the sort of ominous sight that Julian’s grown up with – not in this particular location, not really, but further up east. All these manors are the same in a way. They're all half-empty houses, decaying and heeding laws of a time long passed. He _hates_ it; hates the rigidity of it all. There’s a reason he got out when he did, a reason he became a singer of all things, after all. The _tradition_ that digs its claws into you and never unclenches threatens to crawl back the longer he stares out of the dirty windows.

He shakes himself out of his stupor by accepting the chill that runs up his spine at the thought of being back in a place like this and goes left, walking through the door propped open by a discarded golden bust of some Romanesque figure

The first room is some sort of small, fancy sitting room with only a single couch and a coffee table in it. The couch is more of a divan than anything actually useful and the powdery blue wallpaper makes him a little ill. _Useless rooms in useless homes._

Julian’s flat in London is small, too. It's cramped, filled with books and knickknacks, fanmail and gifts he’s received over the years. There’s not an inch of usable, free space anywhere, and while he’s not exactly a hoarder, he doesn’t like empty spaces left unused. It’s comfortable and cozy, it's a _proper_ home. Empty spaces have always felt wasteful to him.

The next room is a drawing room with large, cushy chairs. There is a round table in the middle and a big fireplace in one corner. It’s one of those tiled monstrosities that Julian remembers catching a burn from when he was about nine; it stood imposingly in their living room and he'd always steered clear of it. The room is a corner room so the empty wall is occupied by a chest of drawers and a painting above it before it melts out into the other room.

There are three more rooms there, and this time all of them are bedrooms of similar design. He assumes that the layout is mirrored on the other side and that all of the socialite-oriented rooms are on the ground floor instead of up here. 

He dumps his suitcases in front of the two large, wooden wardrobes and surveys the bed draped in muted green canopy. It’s big and bare, the lack of bedding disconcerting and another thing that he'll have to worry about later.

“I think there’s bedding in the chest in the previous room.” Nate runs a hand through his dark hair, obviously upset over the situation and - that's sweet of him, _really._ “The bathrooms are at the end of the wings on both floors. Think they had a washer-drier installed in one of them downstairs.” 

“There’s running water, how wonderful.” He eyes the candelabra at the bedside table warily. Hopefully there is reception out here; otherwise, Julian might just drive himself mad running into walls without proper internet access.

“Here,” Nate holds something out and Julian takes a moment to assess the small, oval device – it looks sort-of like a _Beats Pill._

“What is this, 2009? Why are you handing me a _flip-phone?”_ He takes the thing gingerly as if it might bite him. It's been a while since he'd handled one of these and the device feels entirely awkward in his hands.

“It’s for emergencies. Modern day electronics tend to fail out here sometimes. There’s no landline either, so in case you need anything you can reach either me or Val with that thing.” Nate explains patiently, ignoring the bratty tone Julian is used to employing like armor by now. Then again, Nate wasn’t fazed easily by much of anything, really.

“Proper reassuring, that is.” He puts the phone into his jacket pocket and eyes the fireplace in the corner of the room. “Central heating?”

“Really, Julian.” Nate snorts and he sighs - _he didn’t think so_.

“Guess it’s back to chopping wood for me, then.” He walks back towards the previous room and starts rooting through the drawers until he finds the fresh-smelling linens.

“You think you still know how to do it?” Nate’s smile is gentle and teasing as they spread the large, soft sheet across the giant bed together.

“Can’t lose that kind of knowledge, not with the way the Count had beaten it into me until it stuck.” He scoffs; pretending that he doesn't still feel the phantom pains flaring up as Nate’s movements falter for a moment.

“Jules,” The nickname is still a painful remnant of the past.

“Jaskier,” He responds, “If you must call me something other than Julian, then please, Jaskier.” He tries for a smile but fails if Nate’s frown is anything to go by.

“Jaskier,” Nate tests it out tentatively, “It’s – what your grandma used to call you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” He smiles for real this time, “I use it as my stage name.”

“She always _did_ encourage your hobbies, even when the Count tried to – well.” Nate trails off because he doesn’t have to say it for the both of them to know what he's referring to. Jaskier doesn’t need his past told to him. He still remembers most of it in vivid detail and in lifelike nightmares on the rare occasion.

“I know you’d like to reminisce about the good old days, Nate, love, but – for the sake of my mental health, let’s leave the past where it should be, yeah?” He presses a hand against the other’s arm gently and Nate stares at it for a moment before nodding.

“Let the past die.” The taller agrees and Jaskier smiles at the small victory.

“We should go see where the kitchen is,” He says once the bed is finally properly made – a task that had taken entirely too long. The amount of pillows on it is ridiculous.

“Good call; I can go get the bags from the car once we see if the fridge works.” Nate confirms. His tone is too deliberate, too _careful._

He shoots the taller a look that spells out _stop it_ and Nate’s cheeks go a little pink at being caught in the act of _babying._ He knows the other’s used to looking out for him but – that was years ago. Nate would balk at half the shit Jaskier’s seen in the bowels of London. He’s no shy schoolboy anymore and sometimes Nate and Valentin seem to forget that. Well, it’s due time that they were both reminded of the fact.

“Want me to make lunch?” He asks as they enter the large kitchen. There aren’t any marble countertops or stainless steel appliances, but it’s quaint and there’s an old refrigerator in the corner of the room so he’ll do just fine. The stove is a cast iron thing that runs solely on wood and Jaskier mourns the future of his arms and hands. There’s also an island with some old barstools that's certainly a massive statement piece to the whole thing - that clashes terribly with the mint green cabinets since it's a pale yellow. On the other side of the mint coloured room sits a large, hardwood table with no less than eight chairs surrounding the oval monstrosity that he doubts he'll use at all. The windows are floor-to-ceiling here, too, and the double glass doors lead to the back yard. Upon closer inspection, beyond the atrium-fountain space, he sees now an old greenhouse with cracked glass walls and rusted, gilded décor. 

“You can cook?” Nate teases and Jaskier smacks the back of his hand against the other’s stomach in a reprimanding gesture.

“I had to fend for myself somehow, didn’t I? Go get the bags from the car.” He shoos the other away, watching as the towering man ducks to avoid hitting his head against the top of the doorframe. He looks around the kitchen once more and then back into the foyer. Well, at least it looks like someone had cleaned the kitchen up a little. He snoops through the cabinets next and is pleased to find that cleaning supplies had been left behind for him to use. He'll have to develop a list system in order to keep track of his supplies in the future. 

Nate ambles back inside, a dark look on his permanently-serious face and Jaskier sighs inwardly. “Alright, let’s have it then.”

“There’s a – _situation_ – in town that needs my attention.” The taller runs a hand over his face in frustration and Jaskier wants to give him a hug but restrains himself by crossing his arms over his chest – he’s still trying to be mad at the other, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully. 

“There always is,” He shakes his head, waving a hand in the air carelessly and accepting the two bags of groceries that the other hands him. “Go, play bad cop with your friends, darling, I’ll be fine.” He winks at the other and then because he’s feeling a little petty he tacks on, “At least now you know where you’ll be able to find me. Probably permanently.”

Nate throws his hands up in frustration and leaves the house in a hurry. Jaskier can almost hear the _it’s for your own good_ that the other had definitely wanted to utter.

“For my own good, my arse.” He mutters unhappily as he chucks meat and bagged veggies into the freezer. “If it was my own good they were so worried about, would have left me to rot where I fucking was.” He sneers at no one in particular because – well, there’s no one there but him. He considers calling Nate and begging him to come back and bring a puppy with him or something other to occupy his time but doesn't give into that silly want.

Once the groceries are all neatly arranged and he’s located all of the pots and pans and plates and cutlery, he decides that he’s too tired to actually make any food. So he sets to exploring the ground floor.

Out of the kitchen and to the right there’s a drawing room with chest-height bookshelves with books on law and justice and _whatnot_ stacked there. There’s also another well-polished, hardwood table in there but this time it’s in the shape of an octangle with plush damask-covered armchairs surrounding it. Every centimeter of the room is covered in a fine layer of dust that Jaskier despises. He steels himself against it, though, he refuses to clean the place – he will not concede nor will he make himself _at home_ in these wretched, hollowed halls.

The old parquet creaks underfoot despite the ornate carpeting he’s walking on as he passes through the drawing room and emerges into a proper library. The shelves here are tall and filled with books that look as old as the mansion itself. He’s certainly going to have something to do when the days get boring. He just hopes that the paper doesn’t disintegrate in his hands the moment he picks one up. He runs a thumb along the spine of a thick book, clearing the dust away from the worn leather – _Kafka_ the curled, bold letters read.

“Great, a good omen.” He tries desperately to remember what happens in Kafka’s _The Castle._ “Not terrifying at all,” He moves onto the next book and finds that it is Hesse’s _Steppenwolf_. He frowns, realizing that the books aren’t stacked alphabetically. He looks up and he’s pretty sure that he spots the works of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky – by the looks of it, it’s their entire opuses as well; thick book next to thick book. He ignores those, not really fancying re-living his high school days. He shudders, thinking about having to cram-read _Crime and Punishment_ over the winter break while simultaneously learning the intricacies of his father’s _business._

The next room appears to be a proper sitting room. It’s got pale pink tapestry emerging from the paneling that covers the lower half of the walls and another rustic chandelier dangling in the middle of the room. The fireplace there is a little more modern and the deer head mounted on the wall above it is entirely horrible. The couches are an ugly beige with gold-encrusted clawed legs and they look fairly uncomfortable to sit in. There are also cabinets lining the wall – the kind filled with crystalline glasses and decanters, empty bottles of expensive scotch and wine. 

It’s still light out when he makes his way back to the kitchen and out of the glass doors there. He takes a deep breath and holds the fresh air in his lungs for a couple of moments before letting it out. Perhaps the only thing he’s missed from the Old Country was the scent of the forest, of the soft soil and the moss-covered trees. He eyes the trees beyond the gates warily, moving past the dried-up fountain and almost involuntarily towards the end of the property.

His palm meets the rusted iron that might have been dyed golden once. The gates out here are looser than the ones up front, one of the wings hangs slightly tilted, digging into the ground with a sharp corner. He tries to tug it loose since it doesn’t seem to be chained and locked but it refuses to budge, too insistent in its perch. He frowns and dusts his hands off, pointedly ignoring the screech of wildlife out in the distance. He hates thinking that he's not the only one out here alone almost as much as he hates thinking about being out here on his own. 

He returns back to his humble abode, wondering if he can convince Nate to buy him a TV. Then again, he’s supposed to be _going off the grid_ and _keeping a low profile_ or _whatever_ so it may be a long while before he’s even allowed to catch a glimpse of the news – lest he give into temptation and _tweet._ It’s going to be a long while before he’s allowed to do anything.

* * *

He spends three days uselessly milling around the manor, kicking up dust and vehemently refusing to sweep it even when it makes him sneeze. He cooks on the first night, some old dish his grandma showed him how to make back when he was a child, and he makes a large pot of it so that he doesn’t have to cook for the next three days. He's getting bored.

He’s dragged one of the damask chairs out into the middle of the empty fountain pit and is sitting in it, contemplating draining the bottle of desert wine he has in the kitchen, when he hears the sound of the front gate careening open with another painful screech. The car that drives up to the house is not loud and rumbling so he assumes that it’s not Nate. And if it’s not Nate, then it’s Val.

He remains seated, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and letting the smoke curl around him as he exhales.

“You’re not a very gracious host,” Valentin’s voice comes from behind him, already there is a mocking lilt to it. He lifts his shoulders in a carefully careless shrug.

“Do prisoners welcome their guards into their cells?” He decides that a bit of drama is what his afternoon needs, needling Valentin just because.

His brother drops down into the fountain, a very undignified action for a man in such a well-tailored, three-piece suit and polished, brown oxfords. He squints up at the copper-haired stranger that people keep insisting is his brother. Maybe it’s the eyes. And the fact that they’re related by blood. But other than that, Julian doesn’t particularly see them as brothers anymore - hasn't in a long while.

“That’s about as dramatic as it gets?” Valentin tilts his head, the sunglasses he's wearing sliding down his nose.

“Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet, brother! Wait till the tears start flowing, I’m very good at crying on demand.” He offers a cigarette out and Valentin eyes the pack before conceding and taking one.

“I kicked the habit years ago,” Val says as he allows Jaskier to light it for him.

“What can I say; I’m in prison because I’m bad.” He grins sharply and Valentin rolls his eyes.

“It’s not permanent.” The other takes a drag from the cigarette and closes his eyes briefly like he’s savoring it. Huh, he it must have been a really long time, then. 

“Nothing good ever is, am I right?” He kicks out a little childishly, smudging the perfectly pressed pants on his brother’s legs with a dusty sneaker. He grins to himself; he’d forgotten how fun getting on Val’s nerves was.

Valentin grunts, dusting his pant leg off. “You know I don’t necessarily _want_ to keep you here against your consent, right?”

“I don’t know. Both you and Nate always seemed so insistent on getting me to stay put.” He flicks the butt into the air, watching it land amongst half the pack he’s already smoked over the last three days.

“Nobody could ever get you to _stay put_ , Julian.” Val snorts inelegantly.

He wrinkles his nose and takes in his brother’s appearance with a little more care this time. The older looks... tired – still impeccably dressed and well-polished, but the circles around his eyes are darker, and the crows feet there are now deeper and more permanent. Last time he’d seen his brother was at grandma’s funeral a couple of years ago and, back then, his brother certainly didn’t have that gray streak of hair curling elegantly at the front of his upswept haircut. He looks aged beyond his years, the whole _weight of a legacy_ _on my shoulders_ bit is really going to do him in.

“I don’t see why I _need_ to stay put anywhere.” He shrugs, lighting another cigarette.

“Stability, Jules, people need stability.” Val rolls his eyes and it’s like - it's like they’re nine and thirteen again, and he’s just asked his brother to teach him how to play football and got smacked for being _annoying_ and _childish_.

“What I _need_ is for people to stop breathing down my neck. Just for once in my goddamn life I’d like to be able to walk outside without feeling like someone is going to try and kidnap me in the middle of the day!” He jolts up and out of the armchair, a hand compulsively burying itself in his messy hair. “I got out – _I got away_ from all of this, and yet I am somehow, inexplicably, back again! There’s a reason why I don’t do concerts anywhere near this place, there’s a reason you haven’t heard from me in years! You might be father’s _golden boy,_ but I was never interested in the _family business.”_ He hisses angrily, the thoughts in his head boiling over in the presence of his brother. They'd always been encouraged to bring out the worst in each other, and despite them being all grown up now, it's still something that lingers. 

Valentin was always calm and collected – a pious statue put on a pedestal, gleaming and golden, that has those at his altar bowing and basking in his glow. And Julian is – is not. He’s not any of those things. He’s never been calm – always fidgeting, mind too fast to settle on a single thing at a time, _scatterbrained._ He’s never been collected – he’s been an organized mess at best at times, but he’s never had all of his strings held close to his chest in an orderly fashion like Valentin does.

The only pedestal he’s ever been put on was the stage where he received his first Grammy. And while Valentin lives to distinguish himself from his followers with the cold demeanor of a particularly large and deadly cat, Jaskier’s always sought a friendly bond with his. He’s tried so hard to lower himself back to the level where his fans could still think of him as a friend rather than someone to be held up on that same pedestal he’s seen his brother on constantly. He's tried so hard not to be what his brother has become. 

For a moment, he wishes he wasn't famous. He wishes he’d instead gotten out and found a pub to work in somewhere inconspicuous, a piano to play on his own time. But he had been young, _naïve,_ so eager to prove to himself and to his family that he can make it on his own without them – that he had something to offer other than his skills in marksmanship and fucking _accounting._ He didn’t want to be Valentin’s second in command, he hadn’t wanted to be second best. It's no longer about that for him, but back then things were very _different._

“Yes, we were all very aware of your little staged rebellion.” Valentin drops the butt of the cigarette and grinds it into the ground with the sole of his very expensive shoe.

Back to the _condescension_ then.

“Why are you here, Val?” He sighs heavily, dropping the remnants of his own smoke and stalking away towards the greenhouse petulantly, hoping against all hope that his brother will just up and quit. Much to his disappointment, his brother _does_ decide to follow him despite the steadily growing grass that will potentially ruin his shoes.

“Can’t I want to see my brother?” Valentin offers, tone tinted with mockery. 

“No.” He scoffs, “Out with it.” He pushes open the cracked glass door and looks around. There are flowerbeds and pots strewn about, a dying cherry tree in one corner that’s broken out of the windows of the greenhouse. It looks like it used to be very beautiful once.

“We want you to come back.” Valentin doesn’t cross his arms over his chest but Julian can tell that he wants to take the defensive stance. Despite all of the ostentatious confidence Valentin has, he’s still a little boy scared of the Count on the inside – both of them are.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’d love to have all of your eggs in one basket despite the saying. Can’t have crazy ol’ rebellious Julian traipsing around and getting himself into trouble, now can we?!” He throws his hands up in a frustrated effort to relieve anger. When it doesn’t work, he kicks one of the clay pots and watches it shatter, rather satisfied at the noise.

“I know that the London stint wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry you’re stuck in this place. But I do want you by my side, Julian. I want what’s best for you, you know that.” Valentin gives into the urge to cross his arms over his chest and Jaskier smirks, an admission of defeat if he is ever to get one.

“You don’t know what’s best for me." Scoffing, he turns to face his brother fully. "Father’s empire isn’t going to last, Val, you’re a fool if you think that it can in today’s day and age. Times are changing and the sooner you realize that, the less trouble you’ll be in when it finally falls. I know your blind loyalty will never allow you to see this but – it’s a dying trade, what you’re doing. There is no room for people like me in it.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out steadily. He’s not going to shout again, _he’s not_.

“You always-” Valentin cuts himself off, fists clenched by his side now. It’s the most disheveled Jaskier’s seen him look in years. It’s oddly comforting to know that he can still effectively ruffle his brother’s feathers like that, that he's still _human_ under his porcelain shell.

“I always, hm? Isn’t that a wonder? Why would I continually and _always_ do anything if I didn’t believe in my words and decisions firmly? I may have made some missteps along the way, but getting out of this country and this business has never been a blunder on my part.” He stares his brother down, an easy feat considering they’re the same height – something that’s always annoyed Val even if he’d never admit it, but was a great advantage to Jaskier.

Valentin deflates, shoulders sagging, and shakes his head. “We’ll see if you change your mind after a while here.”

“And you said this wasn’t a prison. A gilded cage is still a cage, brother dearest.” He walks past the other and out of the greenhouse. “Solitary confinement is a form of torture, you know. Very inhumane.”

“It’s for your protection.” Valentin persists but his conviction is wavering, Jaskier knows.

“Yes, you keep saying.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “Lovely of you to visit, Val, really, tell _mother_ I said hello and tell father he can go shove his empire up his arse.” He pauses, turning to look at the older with a grin, “That is – if you dare.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He climbs the stairs two at a time and soon finds himself in his chosen bedroom, plopping down onto the bed heavily.

He decides that a nap is in order since emotional talks always take it out of him. He lets himself drift off, lets the irritation be drained away by dreamless sleep, and lets the unconsciousness claim him for the day.

* * *

Eventually, he walks through the rest of the house.

Located in the other wing of the ground floor he finds a study, and instead of another sitting room he finds a gallery of sort. There are paintings and busts, and various vases that have gathered more dust than anything else in the house. Some of the paintings are cracked and peeling, but they’re all very intriguing none the less. There are several paintings of the property itself, but those are small and unappealing to the eye, lost between the other larger works. There is a giant portrait on one wall, taking up the majority of the space, being lit up by sconces. It is of a beautiful, fair-skinned woman dressed in a black dress thats settled around her feet like a sea of silk. The painting is masterfully crafted, the brush strokes delicate but firm and the smile on the woman’s face barely threre. He stares at it, admiring the way the golden chair appears to be glinting and how the velvet of the upholstery seems almost soft to touch. There’s a crown on her head, perched precariously on top of her dark hair, indicating that she’s some sort of long-forgotten royal. Her smile might be almost-coy, but her eyes are severe. He startles back once he meets the painting’s gaze – which is _ridiculous_ – and goes around the room to look at the other art there, ignoring the chills running down his spine.

A couple of the landscapes are of nothing he’s ever seen before, though. They're of sprawling fields and deserted lands, cottages and stone-walled cities that resemble Britain’s past in that they are very _Arthurian_ in appearance. They’re all intriguing and Jaskier’s always had a certain appreciation for all the arts, but they just make him long for his lyrics notebook that he hadn’t been allowed to pack, for the paintings in his own home that he might not be allowed to go back to.

He understands that this is a punishment as much as a precaution, but they could have at least allowed him _some_ joy. He’s not particularly fond of writing lyrics and lines down into his notes app and he can’t exactly play the virtual guitar on there either. He wonders, not for the first time, if he’d be able to get Nate to bring him an acoustic.

That is of, course, when he wanders to the next room that holds nothing in it other than a covered grand piano and its accompanying bench in it. His fingers tingle as he pulls down the sheet and his eyes meet the glossy body of a fantastical beast. The scrawl above the keys reads _Julius Blüthner_ and his insides sing at the rarity he’s discovered. He pops the lid open, grinning madly as the bottom side of it reflects the innards of the piano.

“Oh, you lovely, _lovely_ thing.” He purrs, running his greedy fingers over the fallboard and _feeling some kind of way_. He sits down onto the bench and opens it up to reveal ivory keys. He runs through some scales, frowning every time one of the notes comes out off-key – he’ll have to tune it. Theoretically, he knows how to do it. He just doesn’t have the appropriate tools. A damn shame.

He lets his hands fall away from the keys with a sigh – another day, another disappointment.

To no surprise at all, the house also has a basement – the entrance of it is hidden in the floor of the pantry, and he’s not particularly inclined to go in at first. But then his curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls out his phone to use as a flashlight as he scrambles down the rickety steps.

He sneezes at the dust that rises with his steps, patting the wall until he manages to locate the light switch. He flicks it up, not really expecting it to work but he ends up being pleasantly surprised when it lights up a single bare bulb in the middle of the cellar. He was right, there _is_ wine. There are bottles upon bottles lining the racks along one brick wall, and there are cases of scotch that looks suspiciously home-made next to them. He ambles over, taking one of the dark-coloured bottles and squints so that he can see the label in the dim lighting.

“Shite,” He almost drops it when the cursive Polish on the bottle reveals that it's from _1835._ Upon further investigation, many of the bottles are from similar ages and he’s just stumbled upon a treasury. Well, a damn shame he’ll never live to tell the tale.

Alright, so maybe that’s a fair bit dramatic again. But he’s been in a hopeless sort of mood for a while now.

He takes one of the bottles with him and goes over to the chests in the corner. Fiddling around with various latches he finds that one of them contains the tools needed for him to tune the piano upstairs. He grins again, his day becoming marginally less shitty the more he explores this dusty basement.

There’s a large wardrobe tucked into a far-away corner. He pops it open with a groan from the wooden door and winces as a moth flies out, shivering at the thought of the little critter coming into contact with him.

“Oh, yes.” He surges forward, pulling out expensive fabric after expensive fabric until his arms are full of fur and silk and soft cotton. He tugs his bounty up the stairs with a giddy grin and excitedly deposits everything onto the pantry floor before climbing out and closing the cellar door.

All things considered, it’s shaping up to be a good day.

While not prone to drugs or pills of any kind, he’s never been one to turn down alcohol. He’s been known to have had a bout of getting drunk off his arse and spending it in a stupor waxing poetic about this subject or that. It’s how some of his most successful hits had come to be and he’s not even marginally sorry for it. He doesn’t, however, make a habit of it. Which is why his tolerance is still fairly low.

 _Which is why_ when Nate comes by later that evening, the taller finds him swaying gently to the dulcet tones of Hozier while wearing one of the extravagant paisley-covered silk robes with the bottle of wine in his hand in the middle of the stupid sitting room.

“Julian,” Nate croons, somehow both fond and disappointed all at once and Jaskier only turns to him with a wink before belting out along with _Dinner and Diatribes –_ albeit somewhat clumsily and without knowing the proper lyrics to go along with the tune.

“What’s all this?” Nate waves to the piles of cloth scattered along fancy couches and Jaskier giddily moves to the long, black cloak – eager to give it to Nate.

“I went down into the basement, y’know, as one does.” He hurriedly pats the other’s chest, beginning to unzip his police-issued jacket and chuckling when Nate freezes under his hands. “And I found _so_ much old wine in there! It tastes like shit! But I also found all of these big coats and lovely robes and I think this one will suit you fine!” 

Nate, forever indulgent, lets him drape cloak around his shoulders and he claps cheerily. “You look menacing!”

“Julian,” Nate rolls his eyes and spreads his arms out. “Want me to give a big villain speech?”

“No, no. You could never. You’re too soft.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought. He’s not entirely sure if the room is spinning or if he’s still swaying to the next song playing over his phone’s speaker. “You look like a right poppet!”

Nate shakes his head with a laugh, “I have no idea what that means. The Brits are ridiculous.”

“Oh, but darling, I’ve worked hard for this accent!” Jaskier whines, feeling only slightly bad for forgoing his Polish roots.

“I heard your brother’s been around,” Nate switches topics as subtly as a car getting jacked in the middle of the day.

He feels his good cheer drain out of him with a mournful kind of curiosity, amazed that a single mention of his brother can still throw him into a pit of anger and sadness.

“Pah,” He waves a hand, turning the music off and casting the sitting room into an eerie silence. “Screw him!” He pauses, turning to look at Nate and his large frame. “No, on second thought, please _do_ because it’ll surely get that stick out of his arse! He needs a good lay, that wife of his is useless.”

“ _Julian_!” Nate hisses in warning.

“ _Nataniel_!” He mocks, snorting to himself as he passes through the library with Nate hot on his heels. He needs something to eat; he hopes there are still noodles in the kitchen from lunch.

“What did he say?” Nate asks, voice tentative.

“Oh, how much he _aches_ for your strong, _manly_ hands to hold him down and fuck him silly!” His mouth is running, he knows this, the wine had done its bidding and now all of his filters are incapacitated. He’ll feel bad about this in the morning but at the moment, he doesn’t particularly care if this is a sore topic for Nate.

“What could he have said, Nate? He wants me to come back, of course he does. Fuck him, seriously, just – it’s like he forgets that I’ve done fine on my own and thinks that I’m some sort of incapacitated toddler he needs to herd in the right direction.” He grunts, slamming his hip against the corner of the kitchen island accidentally. He curses silently and goes for the pot of cold noodles on the countertop, digging in with a fork that should have probably been washed already.

When the silence stretches, he looks up to see Nate frowning at him with such a severe expression that he almost drops the pot. He fumbles with the handles and then sets it down onto the island with a loud clang.

“I’m sorry.” He cowers a little, not wanting to incite Nate’s anger, especially when he’s drunk, lonely and sad.

Nate pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I know. I know you’re hurting Julian, but try and see this from his perspective. He’s trying to protect you, himself, your family _and_ your father’s empire. The simplest solution to protecting _you_ is to stow you away so that’s what he did. And forgive him for wanting a little help while he’s buckling under the pressure of the Count’s legacy. There’s a reason there are two of you. The Count knew that a single Pankratz couldn’t possibly inherit the magnitude of what he’s created.” Nate takes another deep breath and Jaskier can almost hear it rattling around in his lungs.

“Even the man himself has a team of trusted advisors, all as old as him and only getting older. They don’t have much time left. Valentin is scrambling to pull something together and how he has to worry about rivals on top of everything just because you’d gotten yourself into the wrong club one time.”

 _Shame_. He feels it deeply. He hates having Nate lecture him because the cuts he leaves are always more permanent than if it were someone else doing it. He knows these things to be true, objectively, but he doesn’t think they matter to him much.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats slowly, “I’m sorry he’s dealing with so much shit but you can’t expect me to want to be a part of this. I refuse to be defined by the fucking Count and his merry council of old farts. I refuse to be defined by where I grew up and by the people who planned my future for me. I have made this abundantly clear, three times over. Valentin will be okay, and as soon as I’m out of here – you won’t have to worry about me any longer.”

Nate stumbles back, looking as if he’d been struck across the face. It’s the last possible look he wants to cause in the other but none of them ever understood. Their minds, stuck in the mentality that family and blood were more important than any sense of individuality, will never be able to understand the type of freedom Jaskier yearns for.

He dumps the rest of the noodles into a trash bag and pushes past Nate, going for the stairs. “It’s late; you should go home, Nate.” He doesn’t wait for the other to leave as he climbs the stairs two at a time once again.

He crawls into bed and shoves his head under his pillow, only allowing for sleep to claim him once he hears the creaky groan of the front gate closing.

He can’t help but feel like this isn’t the last he’s heard of this conversation and that he’s utterly _fucked_.

* * *

The clouds roll over the horizon like a thick blanket as Julian watches from the vine-covered innards of the greenhouse. The air is stuffy and staticky, reeking of ozone. Inside the greenhouse it’s breezy just because of the missing window panes and the cracks in the ceiling. He looks up at the gray sky and blinks as the first drops of rain start to fall.

He pours the rest of his mediocre coffee out into one of the empty pots and makes his way back towards the house.

He’s just closed the kitchen door when it starts pouring proper. He watches the heavy drops and thanks his past self for having the forethought to bring the damask armchair back inside. The lightning comes next, basking the dark forest behind the mansion in light and showing him deeper into it than he’s ever expected to see. He remembers storms like these as a child. Powerful and menacing but so completely fascinating if you were inside your house, safe.

It’s been a week since anybody’s come to visit him last and even then, Nate had just come by to drop off groceries and detergent. They hadn’t spoken and Julian has only himself to blame for it, he knows, but it doesn’t help the feeling of hurt inside of him that’s infested his bloodstream. In that time he’d managed to tune the piano, air out half of the mansion and the stuffy fur coats, and deep-clean the kitchen.

He said he wasn’t going to, but the thought of dust and grime and _filth_ hanging around the place he eats made his skin crawl, so he’d given in. And he might have dusted the sitting room and the bedroom while he was at it.

Though, this means that he doesn’t have anything else to do today. This leaves him with few options for how to entertain himself and he decides that today is the day that he tests out the piano.

He’d been – he’d been _scared_ to sit on the bench and play it. If he’s being honest with himself - he’s been _terrified_ of being unworthy of such a beautiful instrument. Even as he tuned it, he’d been frightened of something going wrong, of a string snapping, of a hammer breaking. But the tuning had been done properly with the tools he’d found in the basement and everything was perfect in the end. But. _But._ He hadn’t been able to bring himself to play it. Something was keeping him back, keeping him from sitting down onto the bench and playing his favourite compositions or just making something new. 

It’s probably because he _feels_ like he’s forbidden from it, like his brother and his family have cut him off from his inspiration, from something that means so much to him. He hates feeling like this, hates feeling drained and caged.

He sits down onto the leather bench, popping open the drop lid wit baited breath. He flexes his fingers and lays them gently on the keys. He starts playing, lightly at first, a few sonatas he’s learned as a child from his grandmother to warm the instrument up. He loses himself in the music, though, and plays well into the afternoon, only pausing when the need to hydrate becomes too great. And even then he only grabs a quick cup of tea that he settles by the piano and leaves to cool accidentally while he continues playing.

As the night falls fully, he dives into his memory bank for more complicated pieces, enjoying how the sound reverberates in the room, the acoustics perfectly encasing him in a bubble of music, making him feel like he’s playing for a concert hall of hundreds of spectators instead of the silence of the mansion. He plays through the crescendo of the storm, unperturbed by the loud rolling thunder and the flashes outside washing him with white light that clashes with the glow of the chandelier above him. 

He’s almost done with Debussy’s _Clair de lune_ and slipping over into _Rêverie_ when lightning strikes inside the forest, the sound of splitting wood louder than everything else in the near vicinity.

“Christ,” He curses as his fingers fumble the next key and a dull note rings out through the empty space. He looks out one of the large windows and into the heavy rain, looks over the usually-empty fountain pool that’s filled with rainwater now and over to the side of the greenhouse and – and at the figure standing there.

He slams his palms down onto the keys as the windows of the mansion rattle under the barrage of the merciless wind. He blinks, rubbing his eyes as he plasters himself to the wet and cold glass, wondering if he's seeing things, but the figure by the greenhouse doesn’t disappear. It’s slight in size, wearing what looks like a white nightgown but he can’t make out much more of it from where he’s standing.

His entire frame shivers with dread as he slowly moves through the room, taking great care not to lose sight of the figure for too long. It looks idle, standing there, almost serene. The closer Jaskier gets the more of it he sees.

 _It_ looks like a little girl, drenched in rain with wet, blonde locks that travel well past her waist. There was also something distinctly _red_ dripping down one of her forearms.

He peels himself from his kitchen window and opens the door to the back yard. Against his saner, baser, warnings, he heads out into the rain, walking slowly towards the solemn apparition. The rain felt freezing on his skin, the shirt he is wearing quickly getting drenched in it. He walks, barefoot, across the slippery concrete of the atrium and tries to make himself as non-threatening as possible despite everything in him wanting to either fight or run away. It’s not difficult to appear unassuming, not really; Jaskier’s had a lifetime of practice making himself small and unnoticeable. He relaxes his frame and turns his palms outwards in a peaceful gesture, shoulders hunched inwards and trembling from the cold.

Another strike of lightning streaks across the sky and he can see the figure clearly now. Her eyes are a striking blue, something in them unsettling, her cheeks are gaunt and her skin pallid. But most worryingly, she looks to be no older than twelve or thirteen. He gasps involuntarily, the sound getting lost in the storm.

“Are you alright?” He calls out, praying to whoever will listen that he’s not talking to a ghost.

The girl takes a step forward, the bloodied hand reaching out for him before she starts collapsing as if her strings had been cut. He curses silently, reaching out just in time to grab her around the waist and save her from a hard impact with the muddy ground.

“Hey, kid, come on.” He shakes her, trying to get her attention, but she remains unresponsive in his arms, slight frame shaking and shivering, her teeth rattling. He feels a fresh wave of fear making its way up his spine and he lifts her up in a bridal carry, hurrying back towards the warmth of the house.

He tracks mud through the kitchen, the foyer and up the stairs. He shuffles into the left wing bathroom and deposits her into the claw-footed bathtub. Warm water, he decides, the quickest way to get her to stop shivering. He angles the child so that the injured arm is draping it over the side of the tub and away from the steadily rising water level for now. The wound on her forearm looks like a clean cut, a single horizontal line that looked very purposefully made.

Well, grandma always _did_ warn him about blood magiks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He curses under his breath in quick succession, rattling through the cabinets and trying to find the first aid kit. “This is crazy, I’m crazy.” He finds the box under the sink and shuffles out the supplies before turning the water off. He’s definitely not about to disrobe this young lady yet so he hopes that the water warms her sufficiently despite the cold clothes on her. She’s still breathing steadily so that’s a plus, even though her pulse is a little too fast. She’ll surely have a fever later on, but for now the only thing he can do is clean and dress the wound. He carefully washes away the dirt in and around the the wound and staunches the bleeding, spraying it with an antiseptic and pressing a square of gauze over it before wrapping the whole thing for now. It’ll need to breathe a bit during the day but she’ll be at the moment.

He steps away from her side for long enough only to layer the bed in the room next to his with towels and blankets that will soak up most of the water before coming back to fish the kid out of the tub. She drips all over the polished-but-creaky floors as he carries her into the room and sets her down in the middle of the bed. He goes back to his room then, tearing off most of the bedding and transferring some of the wood from the pile that had been readied for him there in order to light a fire in the other room’s fireplace. It’s late in the summer and not exactly cold, but the room will certainly need to be warmed up even more if the kid is to get dry during the night.

He fights with himself not to drag an armchair into the room and watch over this strange apparition while she sleeps like an absolute creep and instead goes back to his room to dispose of his own dripping clothing. Once dry and sufficiently warm, he crawls onto his mostly-bare bed and huddles up under the only blanket he has left there.

He sleeps fitfully because the storm outside refuses to let up and his mind is filled with images of a pale ghost haunting him in his dreams.

* * *

He gasps awake, aware that something is _wrong_ but not being able to put his finger on it. He pats himself down to make sure he has no injuries and winces when he comes into contact with the coldness of the outside sheets.

“Christ,” He can’t explain why his heart is beating so fast, but he’s certainly glad that whatever nightmare had chased him during the night is now forgotten. He looks out the window and smiles as the sun shines down upon the manor with grace and warmth that comes only after heavy storms. It will be autumn soon, and Julian will have to start bundling up but for now, he’s free to walk around in shorts and tees still. He scratches idly at his shoulder and by chance tips his gaze towards the side, towards the second bedroom door and – _oh, fucking shit on a stick._

Wide, unnervingly blue-green eyes stare at him from the open entrance to the next room, small, white-knuckled hands clutching at the doorjamb.

“Oh,” He slowly lowers his arms to the sheets, palms still up. “ _Hello there_.” He tries not to grimace at the scratchiness of his own voice. The child doesn’t move, her fingers stiff and cheeks slightly flushed – definitely more alive than what they’d seemed like last night. And oh, _that’s right_ , last night, now he remembers. He closes his eyes briefly and inhales the morning air.

“ _Are you alright_?” He ventures again, the Polish coming out smoothly, naturally assuming that she’s from around these parts. She couldn’t have wandered into the estate from anywhere else, but considering she came from the forest, well, there _are_ some questions Julian would like to ask her. First one being _how_ exactly she got in without the front gate creaking and with the gate in the back being stuck.

The child, however, doesn’t appear to understand him. He cycles through the languages he knows: Russian, French, Italian, even the bit of Swedish he’s picked up over the years, but nothing seems to elicit any reaction from her. She just stares blankly at him as if he’s the intruder in _her_ home.

“Well, fuck, I don’t know what then.” He sighs in the Queen’s English and she startles to look at him with more focus.

He laughs, thinking it obvious and so overall imperialistic that she would understand English out of all the languages he’s fluent in.

“Sorry, um. Are you alright? Do you think you have a fever?” He watches, fascinated, as one of her hands touches her forehead and she frowns in concentration. Finally, she gives him a shake of her head and he sighs in relief.

“Good, that’s good.” He relaxes minutely, swinging his legs to the side carefully. “Well, I am certain that you are hungry and that the weird nightgown you have on is stiff and dirty, so I shall procure both breakfast and a change of clothes! Follow me, please, then we can talk, I suppose.” He walks towards the door out of the wing, not wanting to overwhelm the child and mentally running through the choice of clothing that he’d pulled out of the basement and washed recently. Surely, there’s something in there fit for a child – albeit an aristocratic, 18th century child, but it’ll have to do. 

He doesn’t exactly have much in the refrigerator either. He doesn’t buy a lot of perishables and he’s had the last of his bologna two days ago so cereal it is. The kid probably won’t mind a bowl of Nesquik after a night out in the storm. He adds _processed meats and cold cuts_ to the shopping list mentally, thinking about making the chicken tenders he has saved in the freezer for lunch. Something unobtrusive in case her stomach is upset and – Christ, _he’s already sounding like his gran,_ may she rest in peace. She always _did_ say he’d make an excellent father. Not that he’s adopting this strange little girl, of course. But, realistically, he _does_ have to take care of her for the moment – or at least until he’s figured out where in the world she came from and how to get her home.

He hears her footsteps silent across the floor and he turns, bowl in hand, to find her wielding a large dagger in his direction. He almost sloshes the milk over the rim of the dish with how fast he twitches out of her reach.

“Woah, there, little lady!” He sets the bowl onto the counter gently and raises his hands up in surrender. “Surely you haven’t come into my house, bleeding and sopping wet from the storm just to try and stab me?”

Her eyes dart to the cut on her arm that’s been bandaged and then back to him, squinting in accusation.

“Yes, I take the blame, I cleaned up the wound and bandaged it. How awful a host I must be, oh woes be gone!” He rolls his eyes and she bares her teeth at him in warning, still oddly non-verbal. Maybe – oh, _shite_ , maybe she _can’t_ speak. He shuffles a little closer and the hand holding the dagger shakes uncertainly.

It’s laughably easy to divest her of the weapon. A well-placed press to a frail joint bone and the dagger tumbles into his other hand, solid and silver and singing under his touch. The craftsmanship looks exquisite and like nothing he’s seen in a long while. Knives just don’t look like this anymore, least of all the silver ones.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” He reaches back and shoves the dagger into one of the cabinets, out of her reach. “Here, breakfast.” He drops a spoon into the bowl and waves her into the chair that she has some troubles getting up on. He grimaces, remembering that not everyone is comfortable on barstools. Well. They’ll have their lunch at the never-used dining table, then.

She eyes the food warily before she takes in a spoonful of round, chocolate balls and milk that Jaskier usually eats dry as a snack. Her tentative, awkwardly-gripped, spoonful turns into frantic shovelling the moment she manages to properly taste the chocolate, and then she’s done and asking for more by shaking the bowl at him insistently.

He doesn’t think it’s necessarily good for her, but she probably needs the energy and the calcium so he indulges her and fashions another one. He definitely ought to be freaking out more about this possibly-feral child showing up on his doorstep, but – he doesn’t have the strength for it. _And_ this is the first human contact he’s had since a week ago when Nate had barely glanced at him. He’s pitiful, really.

“Okay, alright. I have some questions, but we’ll settle those a bit later. For now, I need to know if you can speak at all. So: can you speak?” He hopes that he doesn’t come across as insensitive. But when she stares at him with those unnerving eyes and nods, he can breathe easy again.

“Will you speak?” He ventures again, only marginally disappointed when she shakes her head no. “Alright, I can respect that.” He drums his fingers across the table. “Nate’s gonna kill me for procuring a child out of nowhere, but – we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

The kid remains immersed in her bowl of cereal and he feels wholly dismissed. So, with his tail between his legs, he makes for one of the rooms where he’d stashed the rescued clothing, hoping he can scrounge something up. He changes out of his shorts and into a pair of jeans, feeling unreasonably underdressed, like perhaps he should be decent for the occasion which – _ridiculous_ , all things considered. Still, he puts on a pair of distressed jeans and goes back to the kitchen with a handful of various flowing fabrics.

“Uh, I didn’t know what you’d like and I don’t really have anything very modern here for you so...” He trails off with a shrug as she watches him. The stare feels like it’s scooping him hollow him from the inside which makes absolutely zero sense because this is _a child_ that’s staring at him – a kid that almost probably, possibly would have died in his back yard last night had he not noticed her there.

He spreads the dresses and lithe gowns over the dining table and she carefully approaches the selection. Her fingers trail over the embroidery and the lacing on some of them, pausing when a particularly bright colour catches her eye. There’s clothing here from all walks of life, he reckons. There are simple dresses a peasant might have worn and there are expensive gowns that are just shy of being too royal. There _are_ more modern clothes there, too, denim and suede that look like they’re from the seventies – probably the last time anyone’s been in this house, to be fair so that makes sense.

She takes a while to decide and when she does, much to his surprise, she picks out the brown suede overall skirt-type item and a yellow turtleneck. He doesn’t exactly have shoes for her so she’ll have to deal with that for now but at least she’s not going to be walking around in a bloodied nightgown. Who even dresses their children up in nightgowns anymore? _Ridiculous_.

He gives her the privacy to change while he clears the bowl from the island and carries away the rest of the clothes into the sitting room. When he comes back, she’s frowning down at the straps of the top of the dress and he chuckles. The kid shoots him a threatening stare and he offers up his hands, carefully approaching her to try and help. She lets him but not without glaring at him in warning. He doesn’t say anything in turn, thinking it better to keep his mouth shut if his companion can do so as well.

He takes the discarded nightgown and inspects it. It looks a bit frayed at the edges and of course there’s the blood so it’d do well with a wash. He sighs and scrunches up his nose.

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name, little lady?” He eyes the girl but she’s too busy running her hands over the suede in wonder to respond. The clothes are a little too big for her but it’s the best he can do.

She lifts her head and then shakes it.

“Didn’t think so,” He snorts. “Well, my name’s Julian – I prefer Jaskier, if you’d be so kind. I mean, if you’re ever to refer to me as anything. Welcome to my humble abode, my prison and my sentence.” He rolls his eyes at himself and carts the dress off to the bathroom with the washer-drier combo. The kid’s near-silent footsteps follow him through the rooms and he catches her looking amazed as she eyes the appliances in the bathroom.

 _What kind of home did this tot grow up in exactly?_ He muses mentally as she startles at the sound of the washer turning on. Well, it’s not exactly _uncommon_. This far in the country, far from any form of proper civilization, there are still villages with mud huts and straw roofs that do their washing by the river or inside of large troughs. Europe, for its many advances in society, is still somewhat disproportionately stuck in the past in certain parts.

“There, that’ll wash the blood right out.” He’s certain that the cold rain from yesterday got most of it out anyway. Though, he would have liked to pour some peroxide on it as well if he had any. Oh, well, make do with what you've got and all that.

“Does your arm hurt? We should let the wound breathe.” He holds out a hand again, waiting for her to approach him. “If you would?”

She squints at him again from where she’d been bent over, watching the clothes in the washer spinning through the little window. She takes a moment to assess him before finally offering her arm out. He unwraps the bandage carefully, tucking the clip into the pocket of her overall-dress-thing and then throwing the bandage over her shoulder before he gently lifts up the gauze. The wound’s bled during the night but not by much. It’s not as deep as it seemed to be last time he’d seen it, but that was probably a trick of the light and the panic he’d felt. It’s not bleeding now so he takes the gauze and the bandage and straightens up.

“Good, looks a little inflamed but nothing another pass with the antiseptic can’t help.” He reassures her even though she doesn’t look particularly worried. For all that dagger-attack bull she’d attempted back in the kitchen, she’s sure come around quick enough to trust Jaskier with her wounds. Then, she doesn’t really have a reason not to trust him seeing as he’d rescued her from the storm and cleaned her wound.

“What do you think? Does it hurt much?” He asks and she shakes her head. “We’ll leave it like that, then. Try not to irritate it much, alright? Keep the sleeve rolled up.” She nods her head eagerly.

“Well, you just about gave me a giant fright last night but you’re rather sweet, darling. Dagger attack notwithstanding.” He boops her nose and she startles, looking at him wide-eyed and surprise with a blush rising to her pale cheeks. He hums leaning back and tapping his chin. “I need something to call you. How about Mary – like _Mary had a little lamb_?”

Her nose wrinkles and she shakes her head. “Alright, fair enough. How about _Goldilocks_ , hopefully you hadn’t run into any bears in the forest?”

She bares her teeth in a sneer. “Alright, not that either, then. What about, like, _Lorde,_ I don’t know!” He should open up a page on his phone and let her choose for herself and he does pull the device out the moment she frowns at his suggestion.

“Alright, I’ll pull up a page and you can choose.” He unlocks his phone and types in _Behind the Name_ dot com but when he looks up she’s staring at his iPhone like he’s pulled a gun on her.

“Alright?” He tilts his head, pausing his search as her eyes track the movement of his hands desperately. She points to it insistently, turning her frightened gaze to him and he frowns. “Phone? Do you know the number to your house? Do you want to call home? Of course! I’m a bloody idiot.” He smacks a palm against his own forehead and holds out the phone to her and she takes it with alarming speed and then proceeds to _smash it against the ground._

“Hey!” He can only watch in horror as she picks it up and slams it against the tiled wall of the bathroom.

“Well, alright.” He sighs, resigned that this is his life now, apparently. “I suppose you’d want any electronics out if you’re being tracked. Am I housing a criminal, then?” He eyes her and she doesn’t confirm nor deny anything.

“I don’t suppose you can write?” He ventures and she turns sullen with the next shake of her head.

“Shame, that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then picks up what’s left of his iPhone – and it was the newest model, too. “I suppose I’ll just call you _Dove_ , then.” He smiles to himself as she doesn’t protest and mourns the loss of his playlists.

“Come on, little Dove, I’ll give you a tour.” He vacates the room and doesn’t wait for her to follow, knowing full well that she will.

* * *

Out of everything in the mansion, three things fascinate the little Dove the most. The first is the grand piano, the second is the greenhouse, and the third is the library. She’s curious about the piano and Julian can see that she wants to touch it, but that she’s afraid. He makes a mental note to play her something on it later.

She’s delighted by the prospect of a greenhouse when he explains what it is usually used for and it makes Jaskier a little sad that his isn’t operational. She pokes around the pots and the cherry tree in the corner and only startles mildly when a squirrel darts form the branches and out of a broken window. She’s a little tense about the forest but that makes sense. She also pauses at the fountain and Jaskier wonders if he can find a way to get it functioning again.

The library, however, makes her sad. She stares longingly at the books and trails her fingers along the leathery spines wistfully. He thinks back to the one-sided conversation from earlier and wonders what kind of absolute cunt wouldn’t teach their child how to read. Schools were mandatory even in lowly European villages, were they not?

“I can read to you, if you’d like.” He offers and she looks back at him, startled as if she’d forgotten he was there. Something dark passes over her eyes, there and gone in a second, and she shakes her head no.

“Offer’s still there if you change your mind, Dove.” He smiles gently, feeling entirely too drained already. “I’m going to make lunch, feel free to explore on your own if you’d like. But it’d be best if you kept out of the front yard, just in case.”

Cooking has always set his mind at ease. So he lets himself relax as he dips the thinned out filets of chicken into eggs and then into the breadcrumbs, setting them aside until he’s done with all of it. He doesn’t dare think about his _situation_ the way he usually would . Because if he does, then he’ll start panicking and if he starts panicking that won’t help anyone. He hums lightly, one of his older hits, as he cuts up some potatoes to fry as a side dish. He’ll need to put his mental grocery list on paper and call Nate with the emergency phone tonight. He can eat microwaveable garbage all he wants, but he can’t very well let a growing young lady eat bland TV dinners. Once he’s done marinating and cutting, he starts the fire in the stove and waits for the thing to heat up enough so that he can cook on it.

He’s just about done frying the potatoes when the little Dove walks back into the kitchen, clutching what looks to be a stuffed dog close to her chest. He glances at the dusty thing, frowning and wondering where she’d found it but he doesn’t comment - if it makes her happy then he doesn't see any harm in her having it. He should probably give it a wash, though.

“Be a darling and open up the door to let some of the stink out, would you?” He waves the fork in his hand towards the glass and she shuffles over to it, pushing it open easily.

“Go and take a seat at the table, I won’t make you sit on the barstools again.” He grins as she offers him a small smile, unsure and confused, but genuine.

He hears her pull out a chair and he takes the pan off the fire, scooping the fried potatoes out into a paper towel-lined bowl. He picks up a couple of plates and some cutlery before going over to set the table. She watches him with a keen eye as he arranges everything to his linking and then brings the food over. He goes back for a pitcher of water and two glasses and sets those in front of her, too.

She stares at the plate piled high with fried tenders as he takes a seat at the head of the table. He waits to see what she’ll do and when she doesn’t do anything, he forks one of the bigger pieces onto her plate and scoops some of the potatoes onto there as well. He wishes he remembered to buy ketchup.

“Hey, no, _forks_.” He waves the silver utensil and she glares at him, her fingers already halfway in her plate. “Come now, watch me.” A tendril of dread curls in the pit of his stomach, he feels mortified. He feels so suddenly _unsettled_ because this child doesn’t know how to properly use a fork and knife. She watches him raptly and mimics his motions skillfully, if a little shakily.

“Good, excellent.” He speaks despite the tightness of his throat, pleased with the progress, he watches her eyes light up at the simple dish and then readily offers her water once she inhales the food too quickly.

“Easy, the food’s not going anywhere.” He reassures her, gently rubbing her back as she catches her breath.

It’s a silent meal after that, the little Dove taking measured bites and making sure to chew as she eats.

All in all, it could have been worse.

* * *

“ _You, uh, wanna tell me why you have ‘size 36 green Converse All-Stars’ on this list?”_

“Listen, Nate, I promise I’ll explain as soon as you get here but for now, I need everything on that list. Including the sneakers.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, watching as the little Dove sits in the empty fountain on his damask chair and stares up at the stars.

“ _Alright, but you better have a good excuse. Also, I can’t promise you an iPhone, but I’ll see what I can do.”_ Nate sighs on the other line and Jaskier really doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve Nate as a friend.

“You’re an angel, Nate, darling.” He grins to himself as he hears Nate scoff.

“ _This better be good,”_ Nate says and hangs up, leaving Jaskier to his own woes once again.

“Are you cold?” He asks, coming to stand next to the chair. Dove looks to the side and meets his eyes, she shakes her head and she looks so incredibly sad that Jaskier’s heart _aches._ He wants to know this child, he decides. Wants to know what she’s been through and what had lead to her being here, in _Jaskier’s_ back yard. Unfortunately, until she decides to talk, he’ll have to deal with his own curiosities being unsatisfied and remain supportive.

“I'm worried about you, little Dove.” He admits, placing a hand on top of her head gently, pleased when she doesn't shake him off or flinch away like she did in the morning. “You show up here out of nowhere, lookin’ like a ghost and scare the holy spirit out of me, and I don't know what to do with you. I'm happy to have the company, don’t get me wrong, but I am far too young and independent to have children.”

Her eyes turn even sadder – as if that were even possible. And then – then her mouth tilts down and-

“You’re quite lonely, aren’t you?” She speaks and Jaskier’s almost startled out of his house slippers at the timid, choppy, sound of her words.

“Oh,” He tries not to let it show, tries to encourage her silently. “I suppose I am. With the way I grew up, it’s always been hard to find loyal friends.”

She hums, settling into the armchair with her knees to her chest, and letting him pet her while they watch the sky.

“Come on, little Dove, let’s get some rest and tomorrow I’ll play something for you on the grand.”

He wonders, for a moment, if he’d imagined the sound of her voice in the first place. If it was all in his head because she’s right back to being silent as the grave. It’s odd, he thinks as he tucks her into her bed, that he’d told her he wasn’t ready for kids and yet he finds that he enjoys her company more than he thought he would. This little Dove that had landed in his garden and brought some sort of intrigue into Julian’s miserable life is a breath of fresh air. He supposes it's just like finding a stray kitten or a puppy at the side of the road and bringing it home, already fiercely attached to the prospect of taking care of something else for a change. 

“Goodnight, little Dove. I hope you’ll be here in the morning and that I’ve not gone completely mental in my isolation.” He chuckles as she smiles faintly at him.

That night, for the first time since he’s gotten to the mansion, he falls asleep not dreading another day in his gilded cage.

* * *

Nate arrives early in the morning just as promised. He lets the little Dove sleep in and pads downstairs as quietly as he can as to not alarm her, deciding it's best to wait for Nate by the door. He’s come by with his own car so there’s no noisy rumbling you’d usually get from the police Range Rover - he’s thankful and frankly surprised that the loud noise of the gate opening hadn’t woken the sprog up already. 

He hops anxiously from one foot to the other, watching as Nate drags several bags out of the trunk of his car.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about? Are you trying to become a chef? What’s with all the vegetables? Is this some elaborate plan to poison your brother? Did need to buy you a mask for the phone or do you have one?” Nate bombards him with questions the moment he’s within earshot and Jaskier shushes him.

“Come on, to the kitchen, quietly.” He warns and they shuffle across the foyer into the room where he closes the door just in case Nate starts shouting at him immediately.

“Julian,” Nate, still cross with him and still obviously a little incensed from their fight almost two weeks ago, groans.

“Look, I'm – I'm about to entrust you with some very serious, _secret,_ information and I need you to be calm and collected and try not to react outwardly in any form of rage. Alright?” He smiles ruefully as Nate’s brows furrow in distress.

“That’s _not_ reassuring.” The other dumps the groceries onto the island and turns to him with arms crossed over his chest.

“Look, there was a storm two days ago, yeah?” He waits for Nate to nod before continuing. “So there I am playing my beloved piano because there is no bloody cell reception anywhere and I'm, like, starting on my Debussy run because I’m bored, you know and I’ve gotten into it – oh, the grand is so _magnificent,_ I really have to play you something-”

“Julian.”

“Right, right! So I look out the window and I almost lose my fucking mind because-”

The door to the kitchen slams open and the sprog runs in, wild-eyed and wielding yet another ostentatious dagger, this one even bigger than the last, in her hands. Nate startles and Jaskier quickly turns his palms up but Nate’s already got his gun out, the barrel pointed at the child.

“Christ!” He yells, startling the two people facing off. “Talk about brining a dagger to a gunfight, Dove, please.” He implores gently and she shakes her head. Instead or dropping her stance, she drags him behind her as if she’s trying to protect him from Nate. It’s – well, it’s very sweet actually. It makes his chest warm and it makes him want to smile too brightly but he resists the urge because the situation might be a little too serious for easy grins.

“Julian, please tell me you didn’t kidnap a child.” Nate calmly clicks the safety back on, raising the gun where the sprog can see it.

“Um, I was getting to that bit, actually.” He chuckles and then slowly liberates the dagger from the feral child, making sure to put himself between them again.

“Y’alright there, little Dove?” She twitches her head in Nate’s direction rather harshly and Julian winces. “He’s fine. He – he helps. He delivers food and stuff. I got him to buy you some shoes and stockings so you don’t have to walk around barefoot, yeah?”

She frowns at him as is customary.

“Julian, mind telling me why this kid is trying to protect you?” Nate, seemingly aware that the girl doesn’t feel safe listening to Polish, switches to English easily.

“Little Dove, this is Nate. Nate, this is – well, she doesn’t speak and she didn’t like any of the names I suggested, _or_ my brand new iPhone, so I’ve settled on calling her Dove or any number of endearments.” He winks at the sprog and she wrinkles her nose, looking to the side uncaringly, but her cheeks redden either way.

“Why’s she dressed like a dancing queen?” Nate, still frowning and possibly thrown for a loop now, asks instead of trying to pry more information out of him like Julian had expected. Well, that must be the confusion talking then.

“It was all I had, well that and a couple of dresses that looked entirely too old. Her nightgown was drenched and bloodied and I-”

“ _Bloodied?”_ Nate hisses in surprise and Jaskier waves at him.

“A cut on her arm, it was bleeding a lot and she was out in the rain looking like a wraith. Almost lost my bloody mind, I’ll tell you that! Took care of the wound, got her dry and let her sleep. Fed and dressed her yesterday though, she’s a very capable young lady when technology is not involved.” He eyes her warily and she’s staring right back at him, petulant and serious as only kids can be.

“How old are you, anyway?” He tilts his head and she copies the motion mockingly. He rolls his eyes. “Ten? Eleven? Twelve? Thirteen? Thirteen, then.” He spreads his hands out, trying to desperately show that he is, in fact, sane.

“She speaks English and doesn’t understand technology,” Nate leans back against the island. “What else do you know?”

“Well, she can’t write or read and she’s a fan of fried chicken. Not a fan of using a fork and knife, however, had to show her that, too.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Come on, give me the shoes and stockings. I hope they’re not very offensive or they’ll clash with her outfit.”

“Christ, Julian, what the fuck?”

“No cursing in front of the child!” He grins, delighted as Nate’s eyes bulge out of his head in wonder and further confusion.

“How did she get here?” Nate mutters, turning around and fetching the items Jaskier’s asked for.

“I don't know. I'm assuming through the back gate. The gate there is stuck but the wrought iron around the property is shoddy at best and some of the fence posts are missing. I didn’t hear the front gate opening, though so definitely not there.” He yelps as the sprog punches him in the arm.

“Yes, I know I'm talking about you like you’re not here, but you’re not exactly helping, are you?” He hisses and she stares back just as stubbornly, arms crossed over her chest. “Christ, let me see the wound.” He sighs and she offers her arm out again. The thing has scabbed over surprisingly well so he takes the bandage he’d stored in the overalls pocket and wraps it around again. “To keep the dirt out.” He reassures when she shoots him a concerned look.

“You’re – surprisingly good with her.” Nate speaks and Jaskier turns around to look at him, surprised at the awed tone of the other’s voice.

“I have younger fans, Nate. Not all of them are middle-aged mothers and melancholic twenty-year-olds.” He grins as Nate’s cheeks heat.

“So, back gate?” He asks the sprog again and she nods. “The forest?” She nods again. “Any nearby village?” She remains silent, staring at the floor resolutely. “This country?” Nothing again.

“Alright, but, just so you know, you’re safe here.” He pats her head and she nods, still somewhat reluctant.

“Uh, Julian, she absolutely _cannot_ stay here.” Nate makes the mistake of speaking and every fight or flight instinct in Jaskier turns towards _fight_ at once. He whips out the pilfered dagger and brandishes it in Nate’s direction. The taller drops the bag he’s holding in surprise, both hands jolting up.

“You are _not_ going to tell anyone about her, and you are _not_ going to take her away. I'm going to figure out where she came from and why she’s here and you’re going to keep your mouth shut or I swear to God I’ll track you down and skin you alive myself.” He growls, dead serious, for once letting the darker part of his past speak for him.

“Julian,” Nate gulps.

“I love you like a brother, Nate, you know that. But you also must be aware that I would sell my actual brother out in a heartbeat. You will tell _no one.”_ It doesn’t feel good, threatening Nate like this, but he doesn’t have a choice. If she leaves here with the other then she might as well be sent off into human trafficking with how the countries in this neck of the woods deal with their orphans. Or she’d be placed with a family that would only end up ruining her and he wasn’t going to let her become a part of a statistic.

“Okay, alright.” Nate raises both of his hands in a placating manner and Jaskier breathes a little easier for the moment.

“Glad we understand each other.” He hands the dagger back to her and bends down to pick up the bag Nate had dropped. He sets it onto one of the barstools and then hoists the little Dove onto the kitchen island, ignoring her startled yelp. He wrinkles his nose at the striped, knee-high cotton stockings but they’ll have to do. He puts one on her and then lets her do the other one when it seems like she wants to try. The shoes are a little more difficult and she thwacks him on the head when he bends her foot at a wrong angle but they wrangle the All-Stars on her and then he ties the laces together as she watches the process, enraptured.

“There we go, outfit complete!” He holds out a hand and she takes it as she drops to the ground. Taking a few tentative steps in her new shoes, she looks up at him with a bright grin and he feels like his world’s shattering a little. Who would have abandoned such a lovely child?

“ _You’re already attached, aren’t you?”_ Comes Nate’s input, rumbled in low Polish and - and he’s _scared._ He’s terrified because the answer is _yes_ and because it’s only been a day.

He’s really fucking lost it, din’ he?

“Make sure to call me when you know Valentin is coming over for a visit. I’ll have to hide her.” He looks at Nate again and the other nods, still looking somewhat unsettled by the turn of events. “Thank you.”

“I’ve – yeah. I have to go. It was – nice meeting you, I guess.” Nate ruffles his own locks and the little Dove just turns her nose up at him, dismissing the taller entirely.

Jaskier laughs as Nate vacates the kitchen with his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Showed him, didn’t we?” He’s still chuckling a little when the sprog grabs him by the wrist to get his attention. “Hm?”

“Thank you,” Her voice again, firm and sincere and Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes briefly.

“I'm not letting them take you away.”

She smiles her sad little smile that has no business being on a child’s face again. “I'm not sure we have much choice.”

“Come on, little Dove. We can put away the food and I’ll make you French toast.” He doesn’t ask what the words mean, why they’re so fucking ominous or what her name is. He doesn’t think his mind is ready for what those answers are going to imply once he gets them.

* * *

Sometime after lunch on that very same day, he finds the little Dove sat on the floor in front of the large and imposing portrait in the gallery room. Her eyes are wide and teary and her bottom lip is wobbling and he’s suddenly _terrified_ that he’d done something wrong.

“Dove, darling, what’s the matter?” He hushes gently, taking a seat on the hardwood floor next to her. “Do you know who she is?” He asks when the girl doesn’t respond to his initial inquiry, turning his eyes to the striking figure in the painting. The little Dove shakes her head, her hands clutched around the hilt of the dagger she still holds in her possession. There’s obviously _something_ about the painting making her emotional but if she’s not going to voice it, then he doesn’t know how to help. He's not going to press the matter, that's for sure. 

At a loss in face of the sudden burst of emotion, he decides that it’s time to avoid feelings altogether and goes to do what he usually does. He stands up and enters the next room, dropping onto the bench and starting the first few notes of _Rocket Man_. Perhaps Sir Elton John can cheer her up if Jaskier can’t.

Sure enough, somewhere near the chorus, she drifts into the room with her eyes wide and full of wonder. He smiles at her as he sings the words and she drops to sit on the ground next to the piano. He fumbles some of the lyrics and makes her giggle as he invents new ones. It doesn’t matter that he's being silly because she doesn’t seem sad anymore, instead, she seems like she’s enjoying herself. He follows this with the piano version of Panic! At The Disco’s _Gospel_ and she starts humming happily the more he gets into it. It has always been one of his favourites, and despite almost always being seen with a guitar, Jaskier’s quite fond of the piano. She frowns her way through _Work Song,_ and grins once he starts singing Bowie’s _Ashes to Ashes_. He’s not nearly as good as the original, of course, but he tries and he has an inkling of suspicion that she’s never heard any of these songs anyway.

He keeps her entertained for a good hour and a half before his throat starts hurting. It makes him aware that it’s been a while and that he has always hated singing without warming up first. He delves into a couple of piano sonatas, the ones he’d played the other day and she’s just as enraptured with those as she was with the songs.

“Are you a bard?” She asks once he’s done and once again, he startles.

“Er, sort of, yes. I sing and I play various instruments. I'm proficient in the guitar, the piano, the drums and the saxophone, but I dabble a little in the harp as well.” He smiles as she comes to stand next to him, pressing a finger into one of the ivory keys, making the note ring out dully.

And then, then he finds himself teaching her how to play _Frère Jacque_ which she picks up on rather fast. He attempts to teach her some of the easier pieces but she grows bored fairly quickly and ambles out into the yard, settling herself into the damask armchair to watch the clouds. He can appreciate that, the piano isn’t for everyone.

“A _bard!_?” He realizes suddenly, startled that it had escaped his notice the first time. Who even uses the terms _bard_ anymore – _Dungeons & Dragons_ nerds and nobody else, that’s who. Maybe her parents were a couple of fumbling teenagers when they’d had her and now they’re too busy for her because they’re _campaigning_ or whatever and, well – that’s ridiculous but at this point, possible.

Jaskier almost slams his head against the piano but resists the temptation as he stands up to go make her some lemonade or something.

* * *

Time passes quickly with his little Dove there to keep him company.

He flits daily between looking up new meals to make her for lunch and making her favourites for dinner. Sometimes they play the piano together and other times he watches her go digging through the dirt of the glasshouse, trying to plant the tomato seeds they’ve dried even though they’re out of season and the seeds need to be put in cups to become seedlings first. But she’s confident that they’ll grow so he lets her play around with the tools they'd found in the shed in the corner of the property near the forest as much as she wants to.

He introduces her to the world of the internet slowly, reading to her out loud and teaching her to recognize letters and words and match sounds like one would teach a toddler. He downloads some parenting books onto the Kindle app on his phone just to be sure he’s doing the right thing, too, overwhelmed with low-simmering panic at having to teach anyone anything. She’s proper brilliant and such a quick study, and he’s honestly amazed at how swiftly she’s learning. Much like with the piano, she’s happy to spend time revising what she’s learned on her own and he lets her do what she wants as he retreats to his empty fountain and the damask armchair and writes a song about caged birds and trapped souls for the piano.

On the last day of their second week together, she brings him a pad of paper and a pen and he watches as she painstakingly writes out _CIRI_ in big, blocky letters.

“Is this – is this your name?” He asks reverently, tracing his fingers over the lettering and feeling like he was unlocking something new. She nods and he smiles. “Ciri,” He tests it out, beaming when she smiles at him with the corners of her eyes scrunched up.

“Lovely,” He decides, booping her nose. “A lovely name for a lovely little lady!”

She pouts at him but he ignores the insolent look in favour of smearing the custard cream he’s working on across her cheek.

From that moment, she is no longer only his little Dove but she’s little Ciri as well. The name is odd, for sure, but he’s heard stranger, that's certain.

Ciri also spends a lot of time sitting in front of the portrait of the intimidating lady in the gallery. She spends enough time there that he drags one of the chaise lounges from one of the drawing rooms into the gallery so she'd have somewhere comfortable to sit. She’d smiled gratefully at him then and Jaskier had felt something in him settle. It was – it was good. It was good not to be alone even if his companion was mostly silent. She might have been near-mute but her personality is big and her mind stubborn, and somehow she fills out any room with her presence.

The scariest thing is that – Nate was right, all the way back when, Nate was right and Jaskier _is_ attached to her.

He’s given up trying to figure out where she’s come from and how she got into the house by now, and has instead dedicated himself to trying to teach her about the things a kid her age should know. He learns about her and introduces her to new wonders that have her excited and cheerful. She’s a happy kid – finally, and this in turn makes Jaskier happy as well.

He learns that she loves flowers and pop music, that she likes listening to his songs and watching music videos on the small screen of his android phone when they can get internet access. She loves drawing with the pencils he’s procured for her and she draws flowers and dogs and birds. She also loves running and she loves the sunshine and the night sky. She’s delighted as the birds from the forest take interest in the manor and Jaskier has to set up a bird feeder next to the greenhouse to give her an opportunity to see them up close since there’s no other way - mostly because she refuses to enter the forest and when Jaskier first offers, she shakes so badly that he has to bundle her up in a blanket and sit with her in the gallery for an hour before she calms down.

Valentin shows up only once and it goes as well as he’s expecting it to.

He barely manages to convince Ciri not to stab his brother once she seemingly senses how much contempt Jaskier holds for him and his brother wonders why there’s noise upstairs. Jaskier manages to convince him it's _the rats in the attic are having a bender, I’m quite miffed they hadn’t invited me_ and Valentin rolls his eyes so hard he had to have sprained something.

It’s a good time overall and Julian finally understands how a retreat into seclusion can be therapeutic instead of just plain torture.

(The media seems to suspect that he’s somehow _died._ They’ve written him off as a lost cause and a burnout despite all of his fans still supporting him. Well, he can’t blame them entirely. His brother had informed him last time that all of his accounts have been frozen and that they have threatened his manager into silence with a very dodgy non-disclosure agreement. Poor Marion, she deserves better than this. If he ever gets out of here, he’s sure that he’ll treat her to a raise and a vacation somewhere luxurious, all expenses paid.)

It’s a really good time until it isn’t.

Three weeks and three days after he’d found Ciri in his garden another storm rolls over the horizon.

He prepares by closing all of the shutters and locking the windows firmly. He does all this frantically as Ciri stands on the balcony and stares out into the horizon with fear in her eyes. He can’t blame her but he does find it a little odd that she refuses to enter the house until the sun is well below the tree line and the rain has started falling softly. 

He feels bad leaving her on her own that night so he manhandles the mattresses from the other rooms into hers and constructs an elaborate pillow fort that she seems to enjoy. She cuddles close to him and he reads her _20.000 Leagues Under the Sea_ while his phone acts as a flashlight. The storm is loud but the surrounding mattresses dampen the sound some. He also feels bad that the bird feeder will get blown over but they’ll fix it in the morning. It’s fine, they’re fine.

She falls asleep somewhere halfway through the fourth chapter and he follows soon after.

He’s woken up by the sound of a piercing scream and with his blood frozen in his veins, he realizes that Ciri isn’t in the fort with him. He detangles himself from the blankets and sprints out of the room, slamming light switches to illuminate his way as he searches for her with his heart in his throat.

The backdoor in the kitchen is open, rain pelting inside and making the tiles wet, and he almost slips as he sprints out and into the storm. He finds her standing in the greenhouse, drenched and shaking and with the remaining glass from the structure gone, shattered around her.

“Ciri!” He yells, fighting against the wind in just his flannel bottoms and a flimsy shirt. Summer storms are savage but this feels entirely different, this feels like he’s stepped into a hurricane. “Ciri! Come here!” He holds out an arm, desperately hoping she’ll hear his call.

She turns to him, eyes wide and fearful and raises her arm, finger pointed to the forest insistently and shakily. And he realizes that he sees, now that the muddy glass is gone, through the frame of the greenhouse, he sees something white and _looming_ slam through the back gate. The metal gets wrenched, bent towards the ground, and Jaskier’s stomach drops into his soles.

“To the house, quick!” He grabs her arm, tugging, and she stumbles over her own feet in her hurry to follow. A harrowing sound rips through the night, rolling like thunder and deep enough to reverberate through Julian’s chest and rattle his poor heart. He doesn’t close the door to the kitchen, doesn’t have time to do anything other than open the pantry and lock them inside. He scrambles to lift the hatch of the cellar, hands shaking and his pulse pounding in his ears as he finally pries it upwards and instructs Ciri to get in. She’s silent apart from her thin sobs and snivels and his heart _breaks_.

There’s a sound of crashing from the other side of the door and more thunder as he closes the hatch as quietly as possible. He fumbles for the candelabra and the matches he’s left somewhere near in the darkness. Once he lights up the three candles he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Are y-” _– are you alright_ is what he would have asked if Ciri’s hand hadn’t slammed against his mouth in fear. She shakes her head and he understands that she wants him to remain quiet. So he nods and grips her wrist with his free hand. She slots their palms together and leads him down the stairs and onto the dusty couch near the empty wardrobe. They huddle there together, trembling and drenched, terrified and too scared to close their eyes for longer than it takes to blink.

Once he’s a little calmer, once he’s able to think again, he realizes that whatever’s happening is definitely something that should _not_ be happening. But, despite the wrongness of it all, Ciri seems to _know_ what’s happening and this terrifies him most of all.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep that night. He tries to, he does, and even as Ciri dozes off against his shoulder, he keeps twitching awake at the faintest sound. The last time he’d been this terrified – well, it’s been a few years. It’d been a few years since the last time they tried to raid one of the Count’s houses – especially with his family in it.

He’s terrified of going up again, of exiting the cellar. But they can’t stay down here and he can’t call Nate or Valentin because he’d left his phone up in the blanket fort. Eventually, they’ll have to leave.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” He whispers into the top of Ciri’s head. “I don’t want whatever it is out there to hurt you.”

She clutches at his shirt and regards him with a rather serious expression – they’re almost out of candlelight.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” She says solemnly and takes out the dagger – the longer one – that seems to somehow always be on her person.

“Oh, little Dove, that’s sweet of you but I don’t think you can protect me from what awaits us in that kitchen,” He smiles ruefully, caressing her cheek like his grandmother used to do to him when he was being particularly endearing.

“I can.” She reassures him, patting his cheek like _he’s_ the one being a silly goose.

“We should probably go out there and smell the roses, huh?” He looks around, finding the pile of suspicious-looking pipes in the corner he’d been studiously ignoring and picks one out. He sets the candelabra near the stairs and they quietly make their way out of the cellar.

“I’ve shown you how to use the phone, love, if anything happens to me I want you to call Nate – tell him that shit’s hit the fan and come back here to hide. Okay?” His heart is in his throat as he speaks to her, his tone wavering with each breath.

“It’s going to be alright,” She grips the dagger, the ruby on its hilt glinting in the low light of the pantry.

“Here goes nothing,” He takes a shuddering breath and opens the door up to peek outside.

At first, he doesn’t see anything amiss. The door to the kitchen is still open and the floor muddied from the dirty rain; he’ll have to clean that up – that is, if he lives. He notices the barstools knocked over next and a great big dent in the side of the kitchen island, the wood cracked and caved. Frankly, it looks like a small car had run into it. He grips the metal pipe and opens the door further, wincing as the hinges creak.

Suddenly, Ciri barrels out from behind him, looking very much like a child raised in the woods - with her hair flying all over the place and one of Jaskier’s repurposed tees billowing around her like a nightdress – wild and unrestrained. A low growl makes the crystal bowl on the counter sing as it fills the room. Ciri doesn’t look afraid – if anything, she looks _livid_. Her teeth bared and a hiss leaving her mouth as her eyes focus on something beyond the kitchen door.

“Ciri, no!” He screams as she launches herself towards the source of the sound. He runs after her, dreading the worst as the sound of the foyer table hitting the ground reaches him. He rounds the island and finds himself faced with an inexplicable sight.

Ciri, her teeth still bared in a threatening snarl and the dagger in her hand pointed down, sits atop a great big mound of white fur. The mound is silent, still and rising lightly as if breathing. He takes a cautious step towards the two and Ciri raises her other hand to stop him from approaching.

“Ciri, darling, what is this?” He hushes but his throat closes up as the mound turns its head towards him and – and it’s a wolf. It’s a giant wolf with eyes as yellow as sunflower petals and teeth as lengthy as knives, lying still under Ciri’s fragile frame with a dagger pressed to its throat.

She eases herself off the wolf-monster-thing and comes to stand in front of Jaskier as the beast quickly rights itself, hackles raised and drool drooping off its snarl.

Ciri makes a threatening noise, some weird exclamation of distaste, and then clicks her tongue and the beast settles down onto its haunches. Jaskier watches, fascinated, as Ciri slaps the thing’s muzzle with the flat of her dagger, causing the wolf’s ears to draw back in displeasure and its maw to close.

“Little Dove, mind telling me who this handsome boy-o is?” He places a gentle hand onto her shoulder and the wolf growls, causing Ciri to repeat the scolding gesture.

“He’s – a guard dog.” She grins easily and Jaskier feels the weight drop off his shoulders.

“Christ, little one, why did we hide out in the cellar then?” He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling entirely too tired for this strange, _strange_ encounter.

“I was not sure if – he does not react to strangers well.” She settles on saying, grimacing at whatever it is that was her original sentence. “Come, offer him a hand.”

“Do I get to keep my hand if I do that?” He sets the pipe onto the floor and steps closer, eyeing the lumbering form of the weird wolf dubiously.

“He’s not allowed to harm you.” She says firmly and Jaskier is reminded of how little he actually knows about this child and where she comes from. He pushes a hand out, dangerously close to the wolf’s big head, and Ciri holds his wrist to make sure he doesn’t jerk back in surprise when the wolf’s cold nose presses into his palm.

“Jaskier, this is Geralt.” She smiles, rubbing the hilt of the dagger between the wolf’s eyes affectionately and Jaskier wonders if he’s still, miraculously, asleep.

“Pleasure to meet you, I suppose.” He lets the wolf sniff up his arm and shove its nose into his armpit before he squirms away from the touch. “Alright, okay!” He squeaks and Ciri giggles, scratching under the wolf’s head. It’s a large beast; sitting on its haunches its head is parallel with Jaskier’s collarbones. Not for the first time (even in the last hour), Jaskier wonders where exactly it is that Ciri comes from. Maybe it’s Chernobyl since this wolf is, obviously, a mutant of some sort.

“He’s certainly quite big,” He mutters and Ciri startles a little, looking the wolf over as if she’s just noticed.

“I have no point of comparison,” She shrugs sheepishly and, yeah, Jaskier should have seen that coming.

“Yes, well, take my word for it, little Dove.” He chuckles and goes to right the table they’d knocked over.

“Is he hungry? Should I thaw some meat? Can you understand him? Is he thirsty? Is this all a bit magical? Was nana right when she said that I should never go into the forest on my own? Well, that’s a shame, I do quite like hiking. Perhaps you two should accompany me, then. Well, if we ever dare to go into that ghastly place, anyway. Just looking at it sends shivers down my spine. I don’t think he can drink from a bowl, his head’s too big. I should find a basin, there’s perhaps one in the bathroom. If not, I’ll fill up the bath. How about I-”

“Julian,” Ciri’s voice cuts through his rambling and he realizes that he’s shaking where he stands, eyes wide in belated panic.

“I’m sorry, I might be a little shaken.” He rushes to the kitchen and fills up a cup, downing water as the adrenaline leaves him now that the threat has been done away with.

“Are you hungry? I can make you French toast again, I know you love those.” He grips the edges of the counter, staring down at the polished surface.

“How about you take a seat for now, to calm down, yes?” Ciri’s hand on the crook of his elbow is gentle and he nods. Taking a seat seems like a decent option. He turns to the right and almost bumps into the sitting form of the giant wolf.

“Christ!” He yelps, clutching at his chest like he’s a fair maiden. “Don’t do that you bloody dog!” He hisses out against his better judgement, miffed at the invasion of personal space.

The wolf growls and Ciri tutts again, shooing him away with an easy hand wave. The sprog then leads him to the dining table and pulls out a chair for him to sit in. She starts a fire in the stove with the kindling and sets a kettle on it to boil. The entire time she’s going about making tea, the wolf watches Jaskier with a keen eye.

“You’re quite unnerving, aren’t you?” He directs at the wolf and the beast manages to look indignant with his lowered ears and leaning back proudly. The wolf huffs something at Ciri and she snorts.

“No, he’s perfectly harmless.”

He guesses that she’s talking about him to the wolf and for the life of him he doesn’t know why the wolf would think he’d be any harm. Except he did sort-of come into the foyer with a pipe in his hand ready to bash heads. But! Out of the two of them - the choice is obvious.

“Is he – is he staying, then?” Jaskier asks because, well, there sure will be a bit of a struggle to get acclimated to the wolf’s presence and the shopping list will surely expand again and Nate is going to _murder_ him-

“Is – is it alright if he does?” Ciri asks tentatively, placing camomile tea in front of him onto the table. “I know I'm not supposed to be here either but...” She trails off, falling silent again.

He sighs; there’s only one reasonable explanation why Jaskier is even considering letting the wolf stay and that is that he’s surely lost his mind. But he can’t say no to Ciri, and if this is a piece of her life that helps her feel safe and like her old self then he’ll – well.

“It’s fine. He can stay. Just, can he hunt for himself in the forest or do I have to add to the groceries?” He looks over to the beaming child and she surges forward to hug him. He pats her back and rolls his eyes, he’s grown too weak. His father would be ashamed. Then again, he already is so what’s one fault more?

“He can hunt.” Ciri confirms and – at least that’s something.

“Good, alright.” He takes a sip of his tea. “This should be interesting.”

* * *

That night he is the one sitting in the damask armchair as Ciri sits on the dried out concrete of the fountain pool next to the big wolf in front of him. He watches them interact and notices the easiness with which she leans against the wolf and how the beast curls around her protectively. It’s very sweet. And if you overlook the part where the wolf is overly grown and the child is halfway feral, then it’s almost like seeing a regular sprog playing with their dog. He wonders if Geralt would play fetch.

He has many questions more urgent than whether or not Geralt would fetch on his mind, so many inquiries about the state of things, and a curiosity that’s almost bursting out of his ears and yet. He doesn’t ask any of them. It doesn’t feel right to ask. He trusts Ciri and her judgement. If she’s run away from somewhere then she’s had a good reason to, and the best thing he can do is keep his mouth shut on the matter and try and keep her safe.

* * *

Things don’t really change much after that.

He still cooks for Ciri, still reads her books and watches her draw and look at the stars. They still dance together to the music on his phone and they still try to garden in the greenhouse. Things stay the same - except now he has to watch out so that he doesn’t step on the wolf’s tail when he moves around the kitchen and he has to brush white fur off of anything dark in the house because the beast sheds like mad.

The wolf still stares at him, as distrusting as ever and Jaskier sticks his tongue out at the beast every time he catches the suspicious gaze on his back. Ciri laughs more with the wolf there, too. She’s quicker to share her thoughts and quicker to ask for things. It’s like having Geralt there is reassuring in a way that Jaskier could not be no matter how much he tried and wished to. He’s not really bitter over it, no. He’s mostly glad because he gets to hear her giggles and occasionally he gets to hear her singing along to some of the songs.

Another two weeks in and she’s reading on her own. The books that are in the library are mostly in Polish but some are in English and while they’re often old and filled with complicated words, he’s always there to explain and simplify. And with these little changes, the wolf warms up to him as well – seemingly realizing how much Jaskier cares about the little girl that’d turned his life upside down.

“You don’t seem as lonely anymore,” She says one day, her hair practically white in the late-summer sun.

“Hm, I don't suppose I'm all that lonely anymore, no.” He hums, leaning back onto his elbows where he’s lying in the back yard, surrounded by daisies and dandelions. “I’ve got two incredibly vivacious friends to keep me company now.”

Ciri eyes him with a sad smile on her face. Even after all these months, it hurts to see such a forlorn expression on her.

“I’ll be sad to leave,” She admits.

“You don’t have to,” He responds, not really understanding the implications of what he's offering or of what she's saying.

“All things must end,” She sighs and picks up a couple of daisies to make a wreath out of.

And – _really,_ what can he say to that? Ciri doesn’t speak much, but when she does it’s always a little cryptic. Almost Like she knows bad things are coming and instead of fearing them, she’s enjoying the time she has left. It’s possible that whoever is after her is coming to take her away and instead of running she’s just biding her time. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the implication that he’s holding her back from being free.

“Ciri,” He says carefully, voice low and serious. “If I – if I had the freedom to leave here and take you with me somewhere far away, would you want to come with?” He knows that for this to happen he would have to accept his brother’s offer, his heritage and the whole of the empire. But if it meant saving Ciri from whatever it is that haunts her, then it would be worth it. He could always overtake the branch they have set up in Argentina, there would always be _options_ and he'd do anything in his power to keep her safe - even if it meant suffering the fate he'd so long avoided.

“It’s not a matter of where, _Jules_ , it’s a matter of when.” She says, once again, _cryptically._

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve travelled from the past?” He raises an eyebrow at her and she giggles. They’d finished H. G. Wells’ _The Time Machine_ last week and she’d been captivated by the prospect of travelling through time, finding herself in a different world altogether. It certainly says something about her that she’d turn back time if she could.

“Not really, no.” She yawns, giving up halfway through her wreath and lying down next to him instead.

Geralt’s head snaps up and Jaskier tenses.

“Car?” He asks and Ciri nods.

“Upstairs, keep quiet and stay out of sight, _both of you_.” He hisses out and the two scramble to get into the house before the car can drive up to it. He takes it at a slower pace and makes sure to remove any traces of his two houseguests from downstairs while the car approaches the front gate. He looks out the foyer window and grunts as Valentin’s car finally pulls up to the front of the house.

“Fucking perfect,” He shoves away from the window and goes into the kitchen, pretending to wash the dishes while his brother knocks on the door briefly before letting himself in.

“Julian?” The older calls and he resists the urge to tell him to fuck off. If he’s to help Ciri then he’ll have to make peace with his brother first.

“In the kitchen!” He yells, revealing his position despite not wanting to face his brother in the slightest.

“Ah, there you are.” Valentin, looking completely unruffled and unconcerned by the fact that they fight every time they see each other, smiles at him like the colossal twat that he is.

“Of course I'm here, where would I be? Holding a concert in Barcelona?” He hisses, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them.

“Still testy, I see.” Valentin comes around the kitchen island and Julian winces as his brother eyes the dent there curiously. “What happened here?”

“I got drunk and tripped. Took a tumble into the side because the floor was wet.” He shrugs, “You want tea? Coffee? Expensive aged wine that tastes like the bottom of a wooden barrel?”

“Water will be fine.” The older pulls out one of the barstools and sits, still looking infuriatingly dignified in his dark blue suit. Who even looks anything other than slouched and depressed seated on a barstool?!

He grimaces and fills up a glass, hastily shoving one of the chewed up wooden spoons in the sink under a plate. He slides the glass over to his brother and crosses his arms over his chest. “This’ our monthly check-up then?”

“Can’t I want to spend time with my brother?” Valentin raises an eyebrow.

“You see, I’d believe that if you weren’t on a schedule that has you leaving in half an hour from now.” He waves a hand in the direction of the door as if he can urge his brother to leave earlier.

Valentin sighs, running a hand over his face and his shoulders drop from their ramrod-straight posture. Julian pauses.

“What’s wrong?” And _he’s_ the one tensing up this time. He knows this expression on his brother’s face. He sees the bad news in his brother's eyes when they’re incoming.

“Father’s sick.” Valentin’s hands twitch where they’re laid flat on the table. “He’s been sick for a while now but... it’s getting worse. They want me to – to _take over._ ”

“Fuck, Val.” His heart lurches into his throat rather violently. If the Count doesn’t die soon then, as per some horrible, outdated tradition, Valentin will have to _get rid_ of their father – by _force_. “His council?”

“They’re ready to disband and I – I haven’t picked enough members for a new one. There are not enough men in the business here that I trust.” Valentin leans his elbows onto the table and brings his hands up to dig into his copper hair. This is rather serious if Val is showing signs of weariness so easily and openly.

“Can't you start with the trusted three and then work your way up from there?” He grinds his teeth together.

“Yes, and my triad members would be you and Yara. Even if Yara came back, you’d still be stuck here being stubborn.” Val’s eyes are blazing with anger now, the mood of the conversation switching rapidly, and Julian is tempted to reach for the ornate dagger, the smaller one, that’s still in one of the drawers as a precaution.

“I'm not joining you.” He grinds out; so much for playing nice. “Yara was right to want to distance herself from this place. Out of all of our cousins, she’s by far the smartest one.”

“She’s also the one I trust the most which is unfortunate.” Valentin huffs.

“You shouldn’t trust me, Val. I’d sell you out the first chance I got.” He says, voice steady as his brother’s hands clench around his glass of water briefly. “I hate what you do. I want no part of it. And if you force me in, then I’ll do anything I can to sabotage the Count’s precious empire.”

“You can’t do that.” Valentin pushes out of the chair, the sound of it scraping against the tiles loud in the silent house. “You know what they’ll do to you if I even _breathe_ word of this conversation to anyone.”

“Well then, brother dearest, you better hold your breath, yeah?” He grins sharply and Valentin slams his fist against the kitchen island’s wooden top. He doesn’t flinch, he’s expecting the outburst, it tracks that this business of theirs is the only thing that can bring out the worst in them both.

“You are _not_ immune, Julian. Don’t forget that they can get to you the same that they can to any other sorry bastard that crosses their path. You’re not me, they’d hunt you down.” Valentin’s entire frame radiates fury and one wrong word could set him off. Julian just wishes that he didn’t feel the need to push buttons, say that word that is precisely the wrong one to say.

“Oh, I never would want to be _you_ , Val. I’d never want to be a stuck-up, repressed, emotionally unstable bastard threatening his brother in his own jail cell.” He drawls, the anger in him simmering in turn. He’s sure that the wolf can hear the heavy beating of his heart because, as if summoned, there is a crash of something upstairs and Valentin turns his eyes to the ceiling in suspicion.

“What was that?” His brother growls and Jaskier’s bravado drops all at once.

“A draft.” He bites out, hoping that the two guests would stay silent but - no dice. Another thundering noise is heard from up above and Valentin’s eyes turn _knowing_ before his brother darts towards the kitchen door.

“Fuck,” He grunts rushing after him clumsily. “Geralt, out the balcony!” He hisses out in English, so quiet only the wolf would hear it, and sees the hulking form drop to the ground outside the kitchen windows just as Valentin starts climbing the stairs. He waves the confused-looking wolf away and goes after his brother, hopefully Ciri is hiding somewhere inconspicuous. 

“ _What_ are you doing? Can you stop snooping around?! We were having a serious conversation!” He demands, tugging his brother away from where he’s trying to enter his room.

“Why? Are you worried I'm going to _find_ something up here?” Valentin sneers back at him, an odd and unflattering look that he hasn’t seen on his brother’s face since they were both petty preteens.

“There’s nothing to find, you idiot!” He pushes forward until his forehead is almost pressed to the other’s. They’re in the middle of the landing where Valentin can’t see anything out of the ordinary but he knows that if the other enters either of the wings he’ll see signs of other occupants there that Julian won’t be able to explain easily.

“Then why won’t you let me look, huh?” Valentin pushes him back with both hands and he stumbles. “Have you already betrayed us? Have you already sold your blood out!?”

“When? When would I have had time to pull this grand betrayal off, huh?! I’ve been stuck here for months! I’ve been your prisoner for _months_! Go fuck yourself, _Val,_ get a nice big fucking dildo and stick it up your-”

Valentin pushes him, harder this time. He pushes and Jaskier takes two more stumbling steps back and then he meets the railing of the landing. And then the wood gives out from behind him, splintering like kindling, and for one terrifying moment - he’s weightless and falling down. This is it. He closes his eyes as his brother’s yell of distress gets drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. This is how he dies.

And then – then he doesn’t. Because there are strong arms catching him and a grunt of surprise is leaving _someone_ in the room.

For a moment, everything is deathly silent. And then, Valentin is running down the stairs with tears in his eyes and a hysterical wheeze to his breathing.

“Julian, no-” His brother stops before he says whatever it is he was planning to say and Jaskier _still_ can’t open his eyes. The arms around holding him up in a bridal carry tense and he finally forces himself to blink. He meets familiar yellow eyes that glaze over a deep blue a second later.

“What the fuck?” And surprisingly, it’s not Jaskier who’s said this but his brother instead.

He stares into the previously-yellow eyes and the man holding him up looks equally as startled. He doesn’t know what to say, really. It’s not every day a handsome stranger catches you from a fall and stops you from breaking a bone or two, maybe a neck. A handsome stranger that he’s certain is naked and possibly his wolf-y guest.

 _‘Geralt?’_ He mouths so that Valentin doesn’t hear the clear question in his tone and the white-haired man nods. _Oh, sweet merciful Jesus Christ,_ he thinks and looks down where the man’s pressed him into his very impressive chest. _Oh, holy mother of sweet merciful Jesus,_ he thinks as all of his blood promptly rushes in two directions – his cheeks and his dick.

“Did you just almost murder me?!” He shrieks in outrage like a wraith, deeming it easier to do that instead of acknowledging that he’s half-hard in his shorts at the sight of this glorious, naked man that had saved him like he’s a damsel in distress.

“It was an accident!” Valentin shrieks back, looking equally as distressed as Jaskier feels – at least that’s a comfort.

“Oh, my God! You can’t just almost murder me and say it was an _accident!_ You _pushed_ me through the fucking railing!” He accuses, shaky in the knees enough that Geralt notices and curls an arm around his waist – which _really_ isn’t helping the downstairs situation.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would break!” Valentin looks briefly up to where some of the railing is still dangling precariously off the edge of the landing.

“It’s called manslaughter for a reason!” He stomps his foot on the ground and Geralt growls behind him, obviously sensing that he’s turning hostile towards the perceived home invader despite not understanding what was being said.

“Julian, I – no. _No._ Who is this!? Who the fuck is this random man naked in your house?!” Valentin waves a hand at him and man-Geralt frantically, voice reaching new heights once again.

“The fucking _gardener_ for all you need to know! How dare you question the guy that’s just saved my arse from _possibly dying!_ ” He shoots back, not willing to relent and give his brother the option to change the subject.

“Oh, please, it’s not that high up. At worst you’d break a leg.” Valentin winces at the same time that Julian does due to the harsh words.

“Glad you think so kindly about my wellbeing. Now, I’ll ask you nicely before I make him throw you out. Please, leave.” He stands his ground as Valentin gapes at him with his stupid face and his stupid surprised expression.

“We’ll be talking about this soon.” Valentin grinds out and stomps away in a tizzy.

“Careful on the drive back, there’s a storm coming!” He kicks the air uselessly as he shouts after his brother, the motherfucker.

“Can you believe him? What a giant cunt! God, if we weren’t blood I’d have kicked his ass thrice over by now!” He turns back to Geralt and, oh, right. Still naked. Still very handsome. Still glaring at Jaskier very intently.

“Hi,” He squeals out and quickly looks away, prying Geralt’s arm from his waist despite the temptation to cuddle closer.

“Alright?” The voice rumbles its way down Jaskier’s spine and he suppresses the urge to shudder.

“Fine!” He squeaks embarrassingly and steps aside as Ciri’s hurried footsteps sound through the house.

“Jaskier!” She comes to a halt much like his brother had. “Geralt! You! Oh, Gods!” She rushes down the flight of stairs on their left and throws herself at Geralt, hugging him firmly and letting him twirl her around.

“How, Geralt? I didn’t think it was possible.” She sobs, her voice thin and filled to the brim with emotions Jaskier can’t even begin to discern.

“Curses, they do not seem to translate over well.” Geralt speaks and once again, it’s like the man’s spent years gargling gravel. “There is no magic in this world.”

“Christ, I need a fucking drink, yeah?” He rubs a hand over his face, distinctly not horny anymore but still very distressed. He pushes past the two of them into the kitchen. “There’re some clothes in one of the right wing rooms, find something there and then come see me. I’ll be in the sitting room.” He grabs a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen and goes back and left towards the only sitting room they actually use.

_Honestly, what the fuck?_

He settles into one of the uncomfortable beige couches, uncorking the bottle of wine and taking a big chug to settle his nerves. His body is still buzzing from the adrenaline of taking a fall like that. He waits and nurses his aged wine and thinks about how fucking insane all of this is. Well – not like he’s actually complaining about the wolf turning out to be a handsome man, but that’s just it. He’s supposed to just be an unnaturally large _wolf_. Not some sort of weird werewolf-shapeshifter-thing. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s just asleep and if he dies he’ll wake up – like in _Inception._ He wishes he brought a totem, then, to make sure. Alas. Though, Geralt could certainly be the Eames to his Arthur. Except Jaskier is too fond of his rather lavish lifestyle to be that uptight. Maybe the other way around. Would that make Nate Ariadne or Cobb? Nate would probably-

“Jaskier.” Ciri’s voice startles him out of his musings.

“Little Dove,” He smiles fondly at her despite his own inner crisis and she grins back.

“I think it’s time we told you where we’re really from. It seems unfair to keep you in the dark now that you’ve seen something’s wrong. I know you didn’t want to ask questions or pressure me into giving information and I’m eternally grateful for that.” She pauses, coming to sit onto the coffee table in front of him, followed by Geralt who’s wearing some impressive leather pants and a black shirt with too many buttons.

“But I think it’s time we give you answers anyway.” She smiles, taking one of his hands into her own. She seems so _impossibly_ mature as she speaks to him and he’s always known she had to be older than she looked, but, right now, she seems like she’s eons older than Jaskier himself. And with the way things are going, she might just be.

“Well, then. I’m guessing that you and your impressive friend over there have quite the story to tell me, huh?” He glances briefly in Geralt’s direction but doesn’t let his eyes linger on the well defined muscles now hidden underneath the shirt.

“It’s imperative that you understand that I didn’t want to tell you anything in order to protect you, Jaskier. But with the storm coming, I don’t know how much time we have left.” She sighs. “Geralt and I – we’re not of this world.”

“I gathered as much,” He smiles shakily and she chuckles.

“We come from a different – reality, let’s say. Where there’s magic and beasts and kingdoms and bad men doing bad things to those who don’t deserve it.” She lets out a huff of anger as her hand clenches around Julian’s.

“And Geralt and I, we were both cursed back home. They took my voice away and they confined Geralt to his second form. The longer I was here the more I could speak so it wasn’t a problem. I didn’t know it would work the same way for Geralt, I assumed it was because I was so far away from home that the hold of the magic had lessened but. Obviously, I’ve regained my voice even if I’ve lost some of the other _abilities.”_ She stands up and holds out the dagger that she’s taken to keeping in a loop on her belt.

“I was cursed and kept captive by a bad man. An evil king trying to rule over all the lands. I managed to escape with the help of one of the servants that had delivered me the daggers. They serve as a - a channeling tool of sorts. With them, a bit of blood and a lot of natural magic, I managed to open a portal into this world to get away.” She tucks the dagger back into the loop and comes to sit next to him.

“I ended up here and I am glad that I did. You took me in without even knowing my name or if I was running away from someone dangerous or not. You are very kind Jaskier, you and your books and your funny little machines that function by touch, saved me.” She looks to Geralt and the man comes to kneel at her feet – and by default, at Jaskier’s too.

“Aside from Geralt, I never had anyone looking out for me. But he was cursed too, bound to the evil king for his crimes against the crown. For years all we’ve known is captivity, Jaskier. I never had an education, I never met people my own age. The king knew it was too dangerous to let me outside of the castle and all I ever saw were the grey walls of my tower and the small bit of desolate horizon seen from the narrow window.” She pauses, leaning down to press her forehead against Geralt’s.

And while she speaks as if she’s telling a tale, for once, she is not cryptic and Jaskier understands her all too well. What she’s saying, if it’s true, then it makes everything he’s ever known a massive fucking lie. Though, alright, that might be overdoing it. His country is old and superstitious, his grandmother loved telling him stories of great beasts and wandering travelers, or curses and curse-breakers. There was always something in him that _believed._

“I – ah.” He shakes his head, suddenly uncertain. “I’m glad I could help. You’re an amazing kid, Ciri. You’re bright and brilliant and you’re so eager to learn – I’m sorry anyone has ever denied you the opportunity to do so. It’s really bloody fucked up.” A warm hand settles onto his knee and he looks down, following it to Geralt’s face. He blushes and looks away, feeling wholly unbalanced at the almost-scorching touch.

“Thank you, for taking care of her.” Geralt rumbles and Jaskier gives a jerky nod.

“Of course. There was never any doubt. And – she helped me as much as I’d helped her.” He takes a deep breath to calm down. “While we don’t have magic and beasts here, there are certainly bad men. I’m not really squeaky clean either.”

She nods, a bright grin on her face again as her eyes shine in admiration. “I’d realized once you told your friend that you would _hunt him down and skin him_ if he told anyone about me being here. And, you always disarm me quickly.” She pouts mightily and Geralt snorts at that, a gruff sound that reminds Jaskier of the wolf in so many ways (as if there was any doubt that the two were one and the same).

“Yes, well. I might have overreacted but I didn’t want anyone coming around here asking questions. I’m supposed to be here on my own, this is a punishment.” He waves a hand to the state of the room which has once again become dusty because he’d forgotten to clean it – for three weeks.

“What have you done to deserve such a cruel punishment?” She leans against him, shoulder against his and a hand slipping into his palm. It’s comfortable. She’s – well, he’s not going to say he’s pseudo adopted her, no. She’s more like a younger sibling to him at this point and he’s grateful for it - and happy knowing that he's being a better older brother than Val has ever been to him.

“It’s more about what I didn’t do.” He sighs. “My father is, what is considered in this world, a _bad man._ He’s a powerful man, a king of sort, sure. And he’s ill. And when he dies, Valentin and I are supposed to take over the – er, kingdom. And I don’t want to. Because the kingdom is very bad and I want nothing to do with it.” He explains, trying to stick to the words the two of them would understand instead of going with _mob_ and _crime syndicate_.

“You were trained for this, yes?” Geralt surprises him by speaking again and Jaskier nods.

“They tried to train me,” Ciri sighs. “But they never could. I am too strong-willed, _unruly_ they’d say.” She smiles proudly, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “So they just kept me locked up until they found a way to bind me to someone like they’d done with Geralt.”

Geralt grumbles at that, a wordless noise of displeasure that has Jaskier grinning a little.

“You _are_ the strongest little sprog I’d ever see, I’ll give you that.” He stands, pulling her up with a hand and absolutely ignoring the sight of Geralt still on his knees. “Come on, I think it’s time for dinner then some light reading. I can get started on _Papillon_ for you, if you’d like.”

“You have a preference for books where someone is either trapped or confined to a single place. It’s very telling.” She says smartly, putting her hands on her hips as she watches him make the batter for the crepes.

“Well now, just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you have to and analyze me to bits, darling.” He shakes his head, still fond despite her blunt words.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbles and he turns to look at her. She’s sitting on the kitchen island with Geralt behind her like a silent sentinel. It’s quite the sight and he thinks, briefly, back to when he thought she’d been raised by the wolves and how fitting it actually was without him even knowing.

“It’s quite alright. You’re on point anyway. I read so that I can hope to escape this bloody place and my cursed fuckin’ bloodline, yeah? After all, everything else’s been stripped from me so my dreams are all I have left.” He admits forlornly, hating how dejected he sounds. He’s always tried to keep a chipper attitude to distract her from her own miseries but now that the truth is out, he feels like maybe a little moping is appropriate.

He runs a hand through his hair, “The crapes will be done in a little while. You can go play something, I know it's been a day but don't let that stop you from practicing before dinner.” He smiles, hoping for reassuring. She looks at him long and hard and then nods, hopping off the island and heading for the piano. Curiously, Geralt stays behind.

“Taste that, tell me if it needs more salt.” He deposits one crepe out onto the plate and motions to it with the spatula. He could, technically speaking, flip them with the pan but he prefers flipping them neatly with the plastic spatula instead.

“What are they supposed to taste like?” Geralt grumbles and pokes at the crepe curiously, splitting the floppy thing down the middle and shoving one half of it into his mouth.

“Neutral, not too sweet but not salty either. So that you can cover them in whatever you’d like – sweet or savoury.” He’s gotten quite good at explaining trivial things over the course of the past few months. Things like umbrellas and deodorant and submarines and _democracy._

Geralt chews on the thing more than it’s strictly necessary and then nods to himself. “More salt.”

“Good,” He smiles, adding a pinch to the bowl with the batter and stirring with the ladle.

He hums as he works and Geralt is a silent presence at his side, enraptured by the process of it and all of the little things Jaskier does as he cooks. He smiles at that; the both of them – Ciri and Geralt – are impressed by the simplest things and he finds it so oddly charming, especially since the two come from a world where there’s magic. He’s pleased with himself on some level, too. A bit smug of him, sure, but deserved.

“Everything here is so different,” Geralt mutters when Jaskier finally gives in and flips the crepe in the pan just to show off.

“I’d imagine it is.” He chuckles. “It’s not a bad thing, I hope?” He nudges Geralt with his hip playfully and the other shifts uneasily for a moment before clearing his throat with a weird snorting sound.

“No, not really.” Geralt decides and Jaskier’s glad. The last thing he’d ever want is to make the other feel bad. Soft piano music drifts through the air, a little belated which means Ciri had stared at the portrait for a good while again. The music is stilted but she’s progressing nicely, practicing hard.

“That’s good, then.” He flips another crepe and Geralt follows the motion, fascinated.

“Why are you doing this?” Geralt’s voice is low and still slightly confused and Jaskier throws a glance his way before pouring out another ladle-full into the pan.

“Doing what? Making dinner? The sprog’s gotta eat, mate.” He clicks his tongue and Geralt shakes his head in a slightly stiff motion.

“You didn’t have to take her in, not many people I know would. And you were a complete stranger.” Geralt, somehow, shifts closer to him and Jaskier’s suddenly aware that the man next to him is very much a Greek God in the flesh and that he himself is only wearing a flimsy shirt and shorts – which means he can feel the heat radiating from Geralt in waves very acutely.

He clears his throat as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “You have to start meeting better people then, yeah?”

“Not many of those around back home,” Geralt grunts crossing his arms over his chest and really, Jaskier _knows_ the other is standing too close to him now. And alright, even as a wolf, Geralt liked invading his personal space to _scent_ or whatever but that was fine because he was a _wolf_ and not a gloriously built man who he’d seen in the nude. Jaskier thinks he might just faint like a maiden. Geralt sniffs him and Jaskier resists the urge to flinch away from the invasive action.

“Better be careful then, no? Find a nice house, lock yourself away to keep safe.” He babbles because the heat rising up inside him has nothing to do with the fire in the stove. “Start a garden maybe. Throw up a gate to keep the bad people out.”

“What, like this place?” Geralt snorts and the rush of air ruffles Jaskier’s hair. He should step away, he knows he should, but Geralt’s presence is comforting even if he’s making him sweat.

“Christ, no. This place is a nightmare and the upkeep is terrible. I’d have preferred a nice little cabin in the woods. Maybe next to a lake with a little dock so that I can have a little boat that I’d take out into the water to fish. Hm.” He sighs, depositing another crape onto the plate.

“That where you were before?” Geralt picks up the freshly made crepe and eats it plain, not bothered by the fact that it’s probably too hot.

“No, no. Nothing like that. I’m a – well, I suppose I’m _a bard_ , yeah? I have a flat - a home - in London, it’s not big but it’s close to Hyde Park so I can visit the lake there. It’s not much but it’s truly home. More than any place like this ever was.” He sighs wistfully, he misses his flat. He misses his quilts and he misses his favourite mug. He misses the downstairs neighbors and Mrs Maple’s fluffy, gray cat Larry that likes to hang out on his kitchen window and beg for food. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about home in a while, hasn’t allowed himself to mourn what he’s lost.

Geralt makes a displeased sound and Jaskier looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You smell sad.” The other elaborates.

“I miss it, I haven’t really – wait. _Wait._ You can _smell_ how I _feel_?!” He squeaks, stepping away from the other, suddenly very mortified that he’s been broadcasting things he hadn’t meant to.

“It’s – _complicated_. Very much so. But in a way, yes. You smell the strongest when you’re happy. Like – like those little brown things you serve Cirilla in the morning with milk, those and honey.” Geralt sniffs again to make sure. “You smell like the storm when you’re angry and you smell like the ground after a heavy rain when you’re sad.”

“That’s – huh. Alright.” He pointedly does not think about what he might smell like when he’s _aroused._

“Alright?” There’s an annoying smirk on the other’s face that has Jaskier squinting at him, brandishing the spatula like a weapon.

“Go away, set the table. I’m done with the crepes.” He looks away from the other, embarrassed and with pink cheeks. Great, now he’ll have to worry about _that_ as well.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is a low growl of _something_ that he doesn’t want to examine.

“The plates are in the cabinet over there,” He waves a hand to the said cabinet and busies himself with pouring out the last of the batter. He takes the stack of crepes to the table before fetching the marmalade and the strawberries from the fridge and the Nutella from the cabinet designated for the sweets stash.

He moves out of the room silently, then. Away from Geralt and the weird atmosphere and towards Ciri and her piano playing. Oddly enough, she’s playing _Für Elise_ at a slow tempo. She usually tends to avoid the classics if she can; if Jaskier’s not forcing her to practice _culture,_ she’s tapping away to her own beat. He knocks on the doorjamb and the playing stops, Ciri peers at him from behind the piano.

“Dinner’s done, love.” He smiles as she nods and carefully closes the lid and the drop lid, being gentle with it like he’d shown her.

“Is Geralt-” She starts and then looks around as if the wolf might hear her – and by all accounts he just might so she hushes her voice into a whisper as Jaskier approaches. “Is he – does he seem alright to you?”

“Well,” He sighs, sitting down onto the bench next to her. “I don’t know. I didn’t know him before becoming a wolf and by all means, he’s still a little wolf-y but he seems fine. Why?”

“He’s been stuck in his other form for so long. I’m worried it has affected him negatively.” She sighs, idle fingers tapping against the closed lid of the grand piano.

“Wouldn’t you know better than me?” He tilts his head, trying to meet her eyes.

“No, not really. I only met him once he was already a wolf. The prince – the king didn’t let him shift back often and never when he was guarding me during ‘ _training’_.” She hisses the last word out rather meanly and Jaskier can’t blame her for the venom in her tone.

“We’ll just have to keep a close eye on him then, huh?” He bumps her shoulder with his own in a companionable gesture. “Come on, the crepes are either cold by now or the wolf’s eaten them all.”

“Does he like them?” She smiles, knowing full well that Jaskier’s crepes are irresistible.

“He scarfed down two of them plain, I’d reckon that’s as good a review as any.” He chuckles, leading her out of the room and through the gallery, pausing pointedly when she falters at the portrait of the lady in the black dress.

“I never asked but – do you know who she is?” He ventures gently, broaching the topic for the first time since Ciri’s arrived at the manor. He’s not sure what he’s expecting but a confirmation certainly isn’t it.

“Yes,” She says, pulling her shoulders back as if in defiance. “She was my grandmother.”

“Christ,” He mutters, thinking about the implication of it all. “Well, that’s something to unpack on another occasion, innit?” He shuffles them out of the gallery and Ciri walks to the kitchen with renewed interest as the smell of fresh crepes reaches her.

“Hel– _oh,_ why are you on the floor?” he asks curiously as he spots Geralt sitting down next to one of the legs of the table, looking completely unconcerned. The man casts a glance around himself as if he hasn’t even realized where he was and Jaskier offers him a hand up. Geralt eyes the proffered hand and takes it, letting Jaskier attempt to haul him up.

“Geralt,” Ciri mumbles, pressing a hand against his forearm. “Sit at the table, yes?”

The taller frowns down at her and then looks at Jaskier expectantly. Suddenly, Jaskier realizes that he doesn’t know the last time the other was _– Christ – permitted_ to eat like a normal person instead of eating off the floor like a wolf.

“Oh, fuck. Okay.” He runs his free hand over his face and leads Geralt to a chair. “Sit in the chair and I’ll get you a plate as well.” He curses himself silently as he fetches another plate and some cutlery. Whoever did this to the two of them is a proper fucking _monster._

The dinner is silent, the atmosphere in the room tense due to the previous incident and the air smells faintly of ozone that the wind’s bringing in through the open back door. There’ll surely be a storm tonight and he’s not looking forward to it. Mostly because the last two storms they’d had had brought forth his two current companions and he doesn’t think he can bear any more surprise nightly visits. 

Once they’re done with the food, he picks up the plates and puts them in the sink to deal with later. He turns to Geralt who’s looking at him all lost like. He sighs.

“I – I don’t have any fresh linens but I can wash some tomorrow. I hope a bare mattress is alright for tonight.” He says, not really sure how Geralt will take the offer.

“I don’t-” Geralt starts, looking unsure as he hunches in on himself a little. “It’s fine.” The other settles and Jaskier nods, letting him hold his words for whatever reason.

Except that, later the same night, he wakes to find Geralt sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed in his room. He eyes the curled form of the man curiously and decides to deal with it at a later date. He goes back to sleep. 

And later yet, when he wakes a second time, it’s to hands grabbing him and clamping down onto his mouth as the storm roars outside and Ciri screams in the background uselessly. Geralt’s nowhere that he can see and the men grabbing him are decked out in elaborate armour and surely, _this_ is how he dies. His breath comes short and his vision swims. Surely _now_ is the time. His last thought before darkness overcomes him is that he’s had quite enough of this already and if he’s going to die any time soon then Death should fucking claim him already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, i didn't think i'd have such a tough time writing this. the moment geralt entered the picture and things got complicated - well. i always have issues with time-skips bc i think they're cheating but sometimes they're really necessary so i need to get over that particular issue on my own.  
> Hope y'all had a good read and that you'll be patient with me for the next part!  
> SOrry for The CLIFFHANGER FHDJJSK  
> as always you can find me on tumblr and twitter @ marionettefthjm  
> Ps as for the casting choices, Jaskier's brother is once again Richar Madden (sans heavy Scottish accent) and Nataniel in this case is physically modelled after adam driver because i am trash  
> p.s. i'm still on my competent!Jaskier agenda if that wasnt clear and it doesnt seem like i'll be able to shake it any time soon :DDDD


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom clap the sound of me frantically typing at 3 am  
> hi! It's been a while and as you may have noticed the number of chapters has gone up and this is mostly due to my inability to stick to a plotline! Anyway, this took a bit bc i got burnt out halfway through and had to take a trip to the seaside to chill out a bit and then when i got back there were exams so now i'm in this inbetween space where there are still exams but i'd rather write than study so- ANYWAY  
> Here's chapter two! Mostly building up towards the final part but there's some fluff and worldbuilding there, hope y'all enjoy!

He’s unbelievably uncomfortable when he wakes up. In fact, the dull pain across his back and in his left arm is what woke him up in the first place. He groans and rolls over onto his back, painfully aware that he’s not in the comfortable bed he’s come to know during his stay in the mansion.

He blinks his eyes open and frowns as he is met with the sight of stone walls and a stone ceiling. The room smells damp and it’s relatively dark, the only sliver of light coming through the small window near the place where the wall meets the ceiling. He looks around without moving his body, too afraid that it will start hurting again if he tries to sit up. He can’t see much. There are shackles on the wall which is pretty weird. A bucket in the corner which is downright nasty, and a – well. What appears to be shimmery glass of some sort to his right that partitions off the obvious cell he’s found himself in from the hall beyond the glass.

He tries to take stock of his limbs next. He wiggles his toes and his fingers, finds nothing there has been broken – thankfully. And while his back seems battered and bruised, there’s no cracks anywhere and nothing’s fractured as far as he can tell. He heaves himself upright until he’s leaning against the wall and sitting.

“Lovely,” He mutters to himself.

He doesn’t remember much from last night – at least he hopes it was last night that he had been taken. He remembers waking up and hands grabbing him, faces obscured by weird-looking helmets. Remembers someone slamming something against the back of his head and then nothing.

Touching the tender area, Jaskier hisses as pain shoots down his spine. “Fuckers,” He grunts, feeling unbelievably tired despite probably having been unconscious for a good while.

“Oh, Christ.” He groans, remembering Ciri and Geralt and taking in the fact that they are no longer there with him which means that the men that Ciri had been running from had finally caught up with them all. And that – well, that Jaskier had gotten himself in the middle of it.

He stands up and fights the wave of dizziness that overcomes him momentarily. He braces himself against the wall and huffs, waiting for the nausea to pass so that he can get close to the shimmery glass. Once he’s sure he’s not going to upchuck, he approaches the barrier separating him from the hall. He finds that, much to his amazement and surprise, the barrier isn’t glass at all. He presses his fingers against the weird energy and thinks, _right, magic._ Then, his hand passes through and his body follows in a clumsy display. And then he’s free in the hall. He grunts in surprise and looks around, confused as to why he’d just been able to pass through something that’s obviously meant to detain him. _Peculiar._

Looking around, he notes that the hall is lined with cells similar to his own. Some are filled with prone forms huddled in dark corners – prisoners. Which brings him to a question of _why_ is _he_ free to walk?

He takes tentative steps down the hallway and towards the wooden door that he sees at the end of it. The prisoners inside pay him no mind, almost as if they can’t even see or hear him. He tries not to pay them any mind either and instead focuses on keeping his steps light and soundless. There’s something in the air – that familiar scent of ozone that he’s come to associate with trouble, it surrounds him now, almost heavy on his skin. He reaches for the door and tugs it towards himself slowly, noticing that there are no locks on it. It comes open with a quiet creaking noise, the wood old and worn protesting.

He peeks his head out through the doorway and finds a set of stone steps leading upwards. _Ah, so this is what a proper dungeon looks like, then,_ he thinks with a good dose of trepidation but with no small mirth there as well. He climbs the stairs carefully under the light of the lit candles lining the walls. The steps are cold and, belatedly, he realizes that he’s barefoot due to them grabbing him during the night. His flannel bottoms aren’t any better for the cold either, but the air around him is warm so it’s not a big problem yet. He hopes that wherever it is he emerges, it’s not snowing.

Well, he probably should have been worried about guards more than the possibility of snow.

He wrenches open the door at the top of the steps and catches the two men stationed there by surprise. Before they can lift their – Christ – _their swords,_ he’s kneed one of them in the crotch and punched the other in the throat. Both of them go down remarkably easy and Jaskier has enough foresight to take one of the swords with him as he evacuates the scene of the crime before the guards recover.

He books it down a hallway, trying to take in as much as possible but the area surrounding him is so sparse and dull that he feels like he’s entered a maze. There are doors closed everywhere and there are paintings lining the walls. Candelabras and chandeliers light his way where there are no windows and every once in a while he’ll see a table of some sort. The sword in his hand is heavy and he doesn’t really know how to use it but the principle is same as using a knife, is it not? Swing, stab, try not to die – pretty straightforward, he thinks.

He is, of course, wrong.

He’d gotten lucky before, when he jumped the guards in front of the door. He’d gotten two lucky shots in because they weren’t prepared but the men that round the corner as he finds another set of stairs are definitely looking for him. He realizes, quite quickly at that, that he doesn’t know how to use a sword. Not in any way that matters, at least. 

He swings and the momentum makes him stumble. One of the guards makes a lunge for him and gets a good knock to his knee with the flat of the sword and his leg buckles at the sudden motion. He curses, slipping down and letting the sword fall. He should have known better.

“A right troublemaker, are you?” The guard sneers down at him, and for the first time he notices that these guards look positively _medieval_ in their knightly grabs of dark, metal-plated armour.

“Well, I got bored in the dungeon so.” He shrugs and the guard smacks him across the face with the back of his hand. He feels the bite of his teeth into the inside of his cheek and swallows the blood that seeps into his mouth.

“Come on, scum, up you get.” The other guard, the one with chilling blue eyes, lifts him up with hurried movements and Jaskier is starting to wish that he stayed in the dank dungeon instead.

He gets hauled up three flights of stone steps and through so many corridors that he starts losing himself in the way that all of these walls are the same. He thinks about keeping track but he can’t be bothered – not when they’re probably leading him to his death. Once again, he wonders where Ciri and Geralt are, if they’re already dead. Probably not. From what he’s been told, the evil king needs Ciri alive and Geralt is too valuable of an _asset_ to be let loose or killed.

They come to a stop in front of a large door. It’s not terribly ornate or different than the ones before – the only weird thing about it is that it’s a double door and that there’s a knocker on each of the wings. The knocker is the head of a dragon with fierce white eyes that could be diamonds for all of their gleaming.

He thinks that he should probably be more terrified but if they wanted him dead then they’d have killed him already. He knows how these things go. They probably want information, they want to poke and prod and know what he knows. And then, when they do eventually drag it out of him and realize that it’s not much, _then_ they’ll kill him. Well, good. Then there’s time to be afraid later. And right now, all he can do is remain calm and try and find Geralt and –

There Geralt is, naked, sitting on the floor with thick shackles around his ankles and some sort of metal mask covering his mouth. He’s so shocked by the sight that for a moment he forgets about the guards that are trying to guide him through the now-open double doors. He stumbles inside, eyes frantically sliding from Geralt to the extravagant chair being occupied by a lounging figure of a young man with long-ish hair.

The room is large and largely empty. There is a wooden table on one side and windows lining the wall behind the chair but overall, the arched walls were bare. Apart from the guards lining the carpeted path he’s being lead down, there was a tall and imposing man on the other side of the chair. He looks down and notices that the carpet is red which makes him chuckle a little to himself.

“What’s so funny, huh?” The guard behind him hisses quietly.

“Oh, nothing. I’m sure that the intricacies of _Hollywood_ would escape you entirely, my friends.” He can’t help the cheeky grin and the utter lack of self-preservation. He’d been brought up near danger for most of his life; this was just another iteration of waking up with a knife to your throat because your instructor wishes to teach you to sleep with one eye open. It had taken him years to suppress what he’d been taught, to shed the training, the preparation. It had taken a life surrounded by friends and fans and lived completely in the spotlight where he could make no mistakes for him to become a regular person. And now he was back in the middle of someone else’s danger; a danger that had somehow become his own by a game of chance.

The universe must truly hate him.

As they approach the seated figure, Jaskier is more aware that the building he is in might be a castle. But the indulgent way that this person is sitting upon this ornate throne is certainly not fitting for a king. His eyes meet Geralt’s and he notices that they’ve started going yellow again, that the pupils are sharpening out and that the blue is receding. Geralt must be regaining his powers then. The wolf also looks completely over the situation; with his shoulders slumped in a sad slouch and his hands bound together, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else – and that might just be true. But the moment Jaskier opens his mouth to comment on it Geralt’s gaze turns piercing and _warning_ so Jaskier heeds the alarm and keeps his mouth shut for once.

“Why is he here? I thought I told you I’d deal with it later.” The figure on the throne waves a hand at him angrily, the rings on his fingers clinking together in his hurry.

“He – he escaped the dungeon, my prince.” The guard beside him shifts uneasily as Jaskier peers around with curious eyes. If he’s going to die then he might as well observe the place where it’s going to happen.

“What do you mean he _escaped_?” The prince hisses, righting himself in the chair and leans forward to closer inspect him. The prince’s voice is smooth, just a little reedy with apprehension and his face is that of someone who back home would probably be a model or something but, honestly, his droopy eyes and his cheekbones just make Julian want to punch him in the nose.

“He, um, he walked out of the dungeon, out the doors and took down two guards before we could track him.” The guard on his other side sounds a little strangled and Jaskier wonders just how unlikely it was for him to escape with such ease.

He notices the way Geralt straightens at that and he meets the wolf’s eyes again. The bound man looks incredibly surprised but also contemplative in the way he’s assessing Jaskier. He squirms a little under the heavy gaze, fighting down a blush that wants to make itself known on his cheeks at the attention.

He purses his lips as the prince splutters, the chalice in his hand getting _yeeted_ across the room in outrage.

“How?!” The prince demands despite none of the guards knowing. They all freeze communally as the prince grips the muzzle on Geralt’s face and turns him towards himself. “Do you know? Because something tells me you might know.”

When Geralt just shakes his head minutely and feigns disinterest in the situation the prince shoves him away with an irritated ‘ _pah’._

“Good use the lot of you are,” The prince stands up and the tall man on the prince’s other side clears his throat, causing the prince to pause. “Well? Aleksei, do you perhaps have an idea?”

“No, my prince, but it might not be wise to go near him seeing as none of us knows the power he possess.” The blonde man’s tone of voice is gentle but firm and his eyes are cold as they rove over Jaskier’s form.

The prince grunts and retreats into his chair. “Well, what is it, then? How’d you get out?”

“I don't think it would be in my best interest to tell you _all_ of my secrets.” He snarks back and receives a kick to the bend of his leg that brings him to his knees in turn.

“The _nerve_!” The prince sneers meanly, hands gripping the arms of the throne.

“Alright, Prince _Joffrey_ , fucking relax!” He really _should_ keep his comments to himself, but it’s stronger than his self-preservation instincts and, well, he babbles when he’s scared.

“My name is not _Joffrey!_ ” The prince slams his palms onto the throne. “I am Prince Thaddeus of Nilfgaard, heir to the throne and you shall address me as such!”

“Alright, Prince _Todd_ , then. What do you want?” He gripes, fully prepared for the slap across the face that he receives dutifully. He croaks out a laugh again and the look Geralt gives him is purely venomous.

“You _insolent_ little-” The prince strides towards him despite Aleksei’s warnings and Jaskier finds himself face-to-face with the prince. “You will show respect or I’ll have you executed! Now, answer me! How did you get out?!”

“Fuck you,” He reels back with a short burst and then forward again, headbutting the prince in the nose and grinning when he hears a satisfying crack of something being fractured _at the least_. He’s never been fond of people getting that close to him without reason. And if this prick wants anything out of him then he’ll have to try harder. Besides, a hunch in the pit of his stomach is telling him that he’s not in any actual danger.

The prince shouts in outrage and the guards around them, finally snapping out of their frozen state, point swords and halberds in his direction. Someone rushes into the room from a door on the right, holding a piece of cloth that gets pressed to the prince’s bleeding nose and Julian feels comfortable in his stance to slouch a little, nudging the sword under his throat away with two fingers – much to the bafflement of the guards present.

“ _Who_ do you think you are?!” The prince’s nasally voice bellows out and the man – teen, probably, though – turns to him again, fire and brimstone in his eyes. “This is an attack on the crown! You will be executed at once!”

“Christ, that’s original.” He sighs and prepares for the inevitable. He sees Geralt behind the prince, standing up and alert now. He’s probably still too weak to do anything in Julian’s favour. He’s always had an innate ability to know when his life is in danger, it was something that he’d kept from his training and right now, the alarms weren’t ringing. He just felt – _unsettled._ He felt a little disoriented, like his body wasn’t his own for the moment but he was fully grounded in it either way. He supposes this is a side effect of travelling worlds – dimensions – whatever, he’s not exactly an expert, but he's not getting the jitters like he usually would.

“Shut up, _shut up!”_ The prince screeches and Julian squints at him, looking past all that pompousness. There’s certainly something to the prince’s demeanour that makes him think that the other’s a brat – and it’s not just the other’s face. The cool exterior the prince had exhibited had broken way too quickly for someone who was used to having control of the situation.

“I want to talk to the King.” He demands suddenly, poking around to see if he can press some buttons verbally.

“Well, he is not here!”

“Where is he?”

“Escorting Cirilla to-”

“My Prince!” Aleksei’s voice cuts through the air like a sharp knife through paper – Jaskier can hear the metaphoric sound in the silence that follows.

The prince, seemingly realizing what he’d been goaded into, cries out in outrage yet again. And Jaskier watches, fascinated, as the man’s right hand begins glowing a furious red. He doesn’t have time to flinch back as a stream of sparks and the same sparkling energy as the dungeon door – this time shaped like a fire – is directed straight at his chest.

It feels – it feels warm as it passes around him, scorching the two guards that had caught him instead. They fall to the floor in an uproar, writhing in pain and seemingly burning up as Jaskier stands in front of everyone, completely unaffected.

“Ah,” He chuckles as his suspicions are confirmed. “Nice.”

“What?! _What?!_ What is he?! Why is he not dead?!” The prince demands furiously out of Aleksei who seems like he might know the answer but is choosing to pretend to be blissfully ignorant to the questions.

“I'm afraid that I do not know, my prince, we’ve never encountered such a thing.” The – Jaskier supposes the man is an advisor, a glorified babysitter – blonde man shrugs carelessly, the robes he’s wearing swishing with the movement.

He winces as he looks down at the guards that have finally fallen still – most likely dead. Gulping, he mentally scolds himself for taking this so lightly. Nothing like some casually witnessed death to give a man back the sense of his own mortality. _No more talking back,_ he mentally coaches himself – not that his schooling will hold in the face of bratty princes and guards that seem to think they’re better than him.

He rubs at his wrist, the one that one of the guards had grabbed harshly, idly as he looks at the remaining entourage. They all seem mildly scared of him and perhaps Julian can use that to his advance.

“To answer your earlier question, _Toddy_ , I simply walked out of the dungeon. I will not tell you how but if you try to hurt me again, you _will_ regret it.” He lowers his tone, making it as menacing as possible and causing the prince to flinch.

“Someone, detain him!” The prince shrieks and Julian rolls his eyes, holding his arms out to get cuffed.

“That’s not going to work,” He hums as a length of shimmering rope winds itself around his arms seemingly on its own. He watches, impassively, as the rope gets tied around his wrists and then simply – ceases to exist. “Told you,” He smirks and the prince fists hands into his own hair in frustration.

“Throw him into a room, have the beast in there with him to stop him from leaving.” The prince waves angrily at Geralt and Jaskier sees how Aleksei’s eyes flash at that, something like mockery in them. Well, perhaps the advisor is as pleased with the prince as Jaskier is – which is to say, not at all. He can’t blame the guy, honestly. If he had to deal with someone so bitchy for days on end, he’d be looking to plot against him, too.

“As you wish, my Prince.” Aleksei motions for some of the stationary guards to come get Geralt and the rest of them try and grapple with Julian but he grunts and dances away from the grabby hands.

“I can walk by myself just fine, lads.” He waits for the guards to unshackle Geralt’s feet and then start shoving him out of the room before he follows with a sneer directed at the whiny prince just for good measure.

They’re escorted into a room a few flights of stairs down. It’s small with a tiny bed in it and it holds no windows. It’s, overall, _depressing_ as fuck compared to the manor – even the pantry back home had been bigger than this shitty little room.

“Don’t try to leave because the guards outside will not hesitate to strike you down and Geralt has orders to rip you to shreds if you try anything.” One of the many guards threatens and Jaskier waves him off, going to sit on the bed to give his legs a rest.

“Whatever, mate, easy does it.” He lies down as the door is shut and waits for a couple of moments before bolting upright and heading straight for Geralt.

“Oh, Christ, you’re alright.” He breathes out when Geralt nods and sits down on the floor so that Jaskier can get a good look at the muzzle on his face.

“What did you do? Try and bite the princeling? I can’t blame you, I’d have taken his hand clean off.” He scoffs and he sees Geralt’s eyes squint in a smile. “Buckle?” He asks and Geralt lowers his head in a tantalizing bow. His fingers spaz out a little as he takes in the sight that Geralt makes and then promptly ignores the coil of heat rushing through his gut. He fumbles with the buckle until it unlatches fairly easily, surely held together by the same magic that Jaskier is impervious to. 

Geralt manages to stop it from clattering to the ground when Jaskier’s fingers fail to function. The wolf raises his head and his eyes are absolutely _furious_.

“Shit, stab me with them peepers, why don't you?!” He mutters, stepping away from the kneeling man as guilt for having worried Geralt settles into the pit of his gut instead.

“That was beyond idiotic,” Geralt informs him in a low hiss.

“Yes, I am – _well aware_ , mate.” He grunts back. “I don't know what – I just. His face is really fuckin’ _punchable_ , _you know._ And I’ve been having the worst two days of my life and then he’s demanding answers that _I don't even have_ so what was I to do, huh? If I was going to get killed either way then I sure as hell wasn’t going to go out sitting down or kneeling!” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm his breathing but nothing’s helping – the adrenaline’s finally wearing off and he’s starting to panic. “And God, the fucking attitude! I was living on the streets of London when I was his fucking age! He may be a prince but he’s nothing but a little shit stain to me, personally. I wish I’d have punched him, really, like – properly, you know? The good ol’ one-two and I would’ve-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s bound hands cup his face, squeezing his cheeks a little with the motion and he pauses his rambling. “That was incredibly stupid but also very brave.”

“Thanks, mate.” He grins a little, feeling calmer than moments ago now that he can focus on Geralt’s hands instead of the situation he’s found himself in.

“You didn’t know the magic would not affect you?” The wolf releases him and Jaskier shakes his head.

“I had my suspicions. I was able to walk through the barrier that was supposed to keep me in and the doors were just – unlocked.” He shrugs, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts and sits down next to him, providing a line of warmth all along Jaskier’s side.

He struggles not to lean into it, “What’s with that Aleksei lad, he doesn’t seem to be all that invested in doing what’s best for the prince. He certainly knew why I wasn’t affected by their magics and he kept his mouth shut about them putting you in here with me.”

Geralt turns his head towards the door, briefly tilting it to the side before he refocuses on Jaskier.

“He’s – a, I think you would say _spy_. For the Elven Queen, the opposing side.” Geralt says laconically like it’s supposed to explain everything.

“Right, elves, of course. Naturally.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How come you’re all shackled?”

“The prince can’t reinstate the curse. He’s looking into it but he doesn’t know how and all of my powers hadn’t come back yet. He needs to be careful but he’s sure enough of my loyalties that he lets me have certain liberties while I'm not that much of a threat.” Geralt shrugs his large shoulders and Jaskier wonders how anyone can look at the man and think him anything other than either a threat or a potential tree they’d like to climb.

“And where _do_ your loyalties lie?” He squints at the wolf and Geralt snort.

“With Ciri, of course. But they – the king is taking her away. They’re going to a remote location to _train_ her.” Geralt sneers out and Jaskier shudders at the tone.

“Fuck, Geralt, what do you mean _train?_ She’s – she’s just a kid. She shouldn’t be training for anything!” He hugs himself at the prospect of Ciri, the sweet little girl he’s come to know and love being put through anything rigorous and life-threatening.

“They want to try and harness her powers. She’s – she’s very powerful. They haven’t found a spell that will make her faithful to the crown yet but they’re on their way to meet a sorceress. She’s – she is also very powerful.” Geralt bends forward, resting his elbows on his knees and gripping his own hair in frustration.

“One of these days, you’re going to explain to me what is what so that I know. But for now, we need to plan an escape.” He declares after a few minutes of deafening silence and Geralt bolts upright to look at him.

“What?”

“Well, obviously, I'm not staying here.”

“Obviously.”

“And _obviously_ I'm not leaving you behind.” He rolls his eyes, “So we’re going to get out of here before the prince can figure out a way to keep you bound to the palace. So, I’ll need the layout of the place, who’s on our side and lessons on how to avoid getting stabbed by a sword or a spear.”

“Easier said than done,” Geralt’s voice is light as if he’s _teasing_ and Jaskier grunts, feigning offence.

“Hey, I obviously have _some_ training.” He punches the solid lump of muscle that is Geralt’s thigh and then winces mentally as the bones in his fist protest.

“I do admit that the way you’d handled the prince was rather entertaining.” Geralt hums, “Even if it _was_ stupidly dangerous.”

“What can I say? Stupid and Dangerous are my middle names.” He grins freely, feeling far more relaxed than when he’d woken up down in the dungeons earlier.

“Really?”

“No, Geralt, dear, it’s just an expression.”

* * *

It takes three days of Geralt trying to teach him anything for _anything_ to stick in Jaskier’s brain. Firstly because he’s constantly distracted because nobody wants to give Geralt any clothing so Jaskier is forced to _touch_ and _feel_ all that’s been shown to him so graciously. And secondly because, long ago, Jaskier had sworn not to learn anything that could help him survive in any way from anyone equipped to teach him about fighting. It had been a stupid, petulant decision of a teenager but it had become so ingrained into his being that he’d even forgotten that he’d made it. Little did sixteen-year-old Julian Alfred know that in approximately twelve years he would be stuck in a world where fighting would be necessary and that he wouldn’t be fighting against butterfly knives and dodging bullets.

He’d taken what knowledge he had of fighting with him when he’d left his home and refused to use it unless it was absolutely necessary.

But, oh, if Valentin could see him now.

“Left,” Geralt grunts as he thrusts out the iron poker in his direction. They don’t have access to any practice swords or real swords but the tools at their disposal work just as well.

“Why is this so hard for you?” Geralt straightens up, hands on his hips as he watches Jaskier rub at the bruise on his hip where he’d been struck repeatedly with the poker. “Ciri said you were good at disarming her. There’s obviously a fighter in you, but you resist. Why?”

“Look,” He slumps onto the bed, a little listless and trying to figure out how to explain the intricacies of the mafia to Geralt. “Say, you have a kingdom, right? And here, that’s pretty standard. All you _have_ are kingdoms. But where I come from kingdoms are far and few in-between and the ones that are bad are usually secret.”

“You have explained _democracy_ and _countries_ before, yes.” Geralt nods, relaxing his stance and dropping to sit on the ground – still buckass naked – gives him his full attention.

“Right, so then, you remember how I said my father is like a bad king and his kingdom is a bad one, too?” He gets a nod in return. “Well, when I was younger it functioned like any kingdom would, I suppose. My brother and I and some of our cousins were very young when we started training. Not sword fighting but still, fighting. And shooting. And knife-handling.” He frowns, rubbing his fingers over the scar marring his left palm.

“You were trained to take over the kingdom, like a prince would.” Geralt concludes and Jaskier hums.

“Yes, well. I wasn’t very keen on the fact. Because bad, secret kingdoms aren’t kindly regarded back home by the rest of the world. And they’re usually prosecuted very violently and they don’t have any real land to hide behind. Sure there are businesses and gangs and security, but one cannot evade the law. It was like a kingdom, a monarchy, within a country that is ruled by democracy and the two cannot coexist peacefully.” He scuffs his bare feet against the shoddy, small carpet that’s laid out next to the bed.

He doesn’t like talking about it and, before all of this, he never had to. People knew who his father was – well, they _thought_ they knew that he was a wealthy businessman but none knew the man’s actual name and lineage (sometimes it pays to be from an Eastern European country). They also knew Jaskier was estranged from his family and that he had made it in the show business on his own. Almost no one had known his full name for years, Julian Alfred Pankratz didn’t exist and there was only Jaskier. And then his father had made moves he shouldn’t have and they’d come after the easiest possible target in the family, Julian Alfred Pankratz.

“Is there a war?” Geralt tilts his head to the side like a dog might and Jaskier finds it endlessly endearing.

“Not an outward one. It’s not much of a war when neither side can gain ground against the other. The authorities can’t catch the bad guys and the bad guys legally cannot strike back against the authorities. It’s a thankless fight that will only end with the bad guys behind bars. In dungeons, for the rest of their lives.” He lets himself fall back onto the bed, grumbling when he’s not met with the soft bounce of springs he’s used to.

“So you resisted?” Geralt asks, trying to get him to the point sooner and Jaskier rolls his eyes at the lack of appreciation for his storytelling.

“Yes. I got out of there as soon as I could. Made a name for myself with my singing and other musical talents. Left behind the life of violence and constant fear and vigilance.” He’s aware he sounds petulant and childish, especially to Geralt who’s known nothing but violence his whole life but Jaskier didn’t want to grow up like that. More importantly, he didn’t _have_ to. He’s sure he seems ungrateful to Geralt but, well, that’s a _Geralt_ problem, isn’t it?

“And you’re afraid to let the violence back in.” The wolf concludes and Jaskier nods shakily.

“I don’t want to be what they trained me to be. I don’t want to have to fight for my life and always be afraid that my best mate is going to stab me in the spleen while I’m asleep. Which happened, by the way, to Valentin. That was pretty fucked up.” He finds his hands shaking a little so he grips the flannels he still has on at the knees. “It’s hard to give up something that had defined me for so long. It’s easier to ignore when it’s small actions like disarming Ciri or head butting an asshole prince but this... you’re trying to teach me how to hurt people again and how to evade being hurt in turn. My brain’s having some dissociative issues.”

“I don’t understand the concept you speak of, but I will trust that it is a difficult situation.” Geralt gets up in one smooth movement that really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. “Jaskier,” The wolf starts and then – _oh, Christ, with the kneeling at Jaskier’s feet already!_

“I promise you that what I am trying to teach you doesn’t make you bad. Using what you know to survive doesn’t make you bad either. What you learn here, what you’ve learned before – it can be used for good, as well. You can use it to help me, to help Ciri. In this universe, you are possibly the only person to be immune to magic which makes this world as dangerous as it is. This world runs on it, depends on it as heavily as yours does on technology.” The wolf’s large hands cover his own on his knees and he gulps, trying not to burst into flames as Geralt seeks out his gaze.

“Knowing these things and using them for a good cause will not equate you to the bad men in your kingdom. Use your skills to help.” Geralt concludes with a little quirk of his mouth that must amount to a bright grin on anyone that’s not Mr. Grumpy Pants over here.

“Yeah, yes. Alright. I’ll try. You’re right. I can use what I know to help. I have the chance now. These skills – they are bad things to have back home but this world is different. I can help.” He takes a deep breath and stands up, ignoring how it brings Geralt’s face directly in line with his dick.

“Let’s try again.” He says decisively and Geralt grabs the poker again.

* * *

It takes five more days for the prince to remember that Jaskier is sill his prisoner. In that time he’d gotten a good grasp on sword fighting and how to handle a shield if he needs to, Geralt had regained his wolf powers and word of Cirilla reaching her destination had finally arrived at the castle, setting everyone one edge.

Geralt is lounging at the foot of the bed, on the floor again but this time in all of his wolf-y glory, when the prince bursts into the room. Jaskier shrieks in alarm for the sake of drama even though he’s not doing anything particularly damning – he’s been reading on the bed and resting after their last bout of sword practice so it’s not like he would have gotten in trouble.

The prince flinches back from the sound, tripping on his floor-length cloak in the process and toppling into the guards behind him. Jaskier laughs at the clanking of metal and the murmur of apologies from the prince’s men more than he probably should have.

“Your majestic prickliness, what brings you here to my humble abode?” He’s still lounging on the bed, book in his lap and an imprudent grin on his face. He knows he’s pushing it but he does love the thrill of the danger even if he hates to admit it.

“I have come to see if you’re willing to spill your secrets now that you’ve spent days in isolated solitude.” The prince straightens out his tunic but his entire frame is tense, he wisely doesn’t comment on Jaskier’s little stunt. It’s almost like the prince knows to be afraid of him.

“Oh yes, it’s been dreadfully boring. Sitting around on my ass for days is my worst enemy, woe is me. The pain of this torture is immeasurable.” He deadpans in his very best droning tone and the prince’s eye twitches.

“Grab him.” The prince orders but none of the guards move. They exchange uneasy looks amongst themselves and the prince stomps his foot against the ground. “Well?!”

“Sire...” One of them trails off, “The Beast.”

Todderick, or _whatever_ his name is, looks down at Geralt’s sleeping form and seemingly freezes in his leather shoes. “Uh. Right. Geralt, get out.” The prince orders but Geralt doesn’t so much as move a muscle under all that fluffy-looking fur.

“Geralt!” He prince tries to sound firmer this time and Geralt rolls to the other side, giving the prince a nice view of his white back.

“Just – ignore him. Go get the prisoner!” The prince demands but as soon as the guards begin making their way into the room, a deep and resonating rumble starts up in Geralt’s wolf chest. A growl powerful enough that Jaskier feels it tremble through his own lungs, powerful enough to set the glass in the room shaking.

“My Prince,” Aleksei’s voice cuts through the air and the guards stop their advance. “May I remind you that your father expects the same amount of guards he left you with upon his return and that you are already two down from that number?”

The prince’s face grows warm and he puffs out his chest. “What is your name?” The prince asks him and Jaskier tilts his head, worried about the line of questioning.

“My people call me Jaskier.” He decides that he should have fun with this. The prince is obviously gullible and naive and Jaskier will take advantage of whatever he can if he is to get out of this place. And while Geralt’s been able to verbally map out some paths, what Jaskier really needs is a visual representation of when and where they can leave the castle without causing a ruckus.

“Jaskier, will you _please_ accompany me to the throne room?” The prince grinds out. “The Beast doesn’t seem to want to let us in.”

“Hm, might as well. Not like I have anything better to do.” He hops off from the bed, easily stepping around Geralt’s sleeping form and brushing against fur in passing. He sees the prince give him a concerned look as he does so and silently revels in the fact that nobody seems willing to put their hands on him.

“What can I do for you today, princeling?” He asks, taking careful stock of the path they’re walking as they ease their way towards the throne room which was on the ground floor if Geralt is right in his estimation – and he usually is.

Todd twitches again, this time bodily, like he can’t believe the insubordination he’s being faced with. He probably can’t. “I need answers and I have brought in my most trusted sorcerer to get them out of you.”

“Now, you see, you should have mentioned that _before_ I agreed to come here with you.” He sighs and helps himself to the familiar double door and pushes them open easily. “As it is, I’m feeling quite cheated. You even asked politely! I’d hoped we could have some tea and talk about state affairs and current events over cakes and crumpets, mate.” He then, promptly, helps himself to the throne and plops down into the uncomfortable chair much to everyone’s surprise. Someone drops something in the corner of the half-empty room in shock and the prince just continues to stare at him.

“I should have you killed!” The prince screeches and Jaskier swings his legs sideways until he’s lounging in the throne comfortably.

“Kill me and find plagues the likes of which you’ve never seen before unleashed onto your lands.” He threatens and the air grows frigid with fear as they take in his words. Nobody’s willing to risk it. Geralt enters the room, shoving his way through the cluster of guards and coming to sprawl down in front of the chair as if he’s Jaskier’s very own guard dog. It certainly drives the point of his perceived power home. Maybe they won’t even need to plan in advance. With the way things are going, they’re going to walk out through the front door by the end of today.

“Ah, this must be the peculiar prisoner you’d acquired.” A new voice enters the frozen arena and the prince snaps out of his frightened daze.

“Yes, and as you can see, I’d like to get rid of him quickly. Preferably before father finds out about any of this.” Toddy looks down at Geralt and something like anger and not unlike jealousy flashes through his gaze. It’s curious and Jaskier wishes to further explore this vulnerability but only if the prince angers him in the next five minutes – he’s not _that_ much of an arsehole despite what his upbringing might make one think.

“And _you_ must be his very powerful sorcerer friend!” Jaskier chirps, getting out of the chair and offering a hand for the other to shake. The sorcerer stares at him and Jaskier throws both of his arms up. “Doesn’t anyone here know what a handshake is?! It’s a show of respect, you lousy bastards! A common courtesy when you’re meeting someone new. Like this!”

He takes the sorcerer’s hand in his and the tall man squeezes his hand on instinct so Jaskier demonstrates by looking into the other’s hazel eyes. “Nice to meet you, my name’s Jaskier. And who might you be?” He releases the guy’s hand and waves his hand in a motion that indicates that his presentation has been finished.

“I am Krystian of Lyria,” The man finally responds, something crossing his expression briefly – possibly amusement. “And _friend_ would be stretching it.”

Jaskier snort, throwing his head back on a laugh. “Yeah! I can imagine! Whew.” He pats his belly as his chuckles subside. “Well, anyway. I suppose you’re here to torture me for information so you might as well get on with it.”

The sorcerer circles him thoughtfully, not touching and not saying anything. But he’s certain that the man knows where Jaskier is from just by the looks of him.

“He’s possibly come from overseas.” The sorcerer concludes and _alright, maybe not_. He’s beginning to doubt that even the prince knows where they’d picked Jaskier up from. The sorcerer takes out a knife and Jaskier holds out his hand, wincing as the man cuts his forearm to let out some blood and Geralt starts growling. The wound oozes for a bit before closing itself like it’d never been there in the first place. Jaskier stares at it, bewildered.

“There is nothing magic in him,” Krystian mutters, rubbing his thumb and index finger together then licking at the blood and causing Jaskier to grimace. “There’s nothing magic or chaos related _in_ him but it seems to surround him. It is protecting him without taking anything in turn. This is – this is unheard of.” The sorcerer looks at him with astonished eyes and Jaskier feels both horrified and honoured.

“Protecting him?!” The prince screeches, rushing to their side. “But the law of magic! The – equivalent exchange! How can he be protected without investing anything in it!?”

“That question I cannot answer on the spot, my Prince. I will do further research on the topic but do not expect results fast. For now, I suggest you keep him stowed away and – ah, satisfied. Lest the chaos tip the scales against our favor.” Krystian bows to the prince and then eyes him one last time before leaving in a swirl of long robes.

“This is – really fucking predictable, you know?” The prince turns to him with a hiss. “First time father leaves me in charge of the kingdom, doing proper duties, and something has to show up and ruin it! As soon as I figure out how, I am going to hurt you. I am going to make you suffer and I am going to rip you apart.” Thaddeus promises him grimly and Jaskier fights down the shiver of instinctive fear, donning instead this cocky persona he’s adopted.

“Oh, my dear Prince, you say the sweetest things. Unfortunately, you cannot hurt me in any way that matters.” He purrs and then with a short whistle, calls Geralt to his side. “Lead me to the kitchen, I’m quite ravenous after all of this foreplay. Later, lads!” He waves to the congregation of bewildered onlookers and winks in the prince’s direction for good measure as Geralt herds him out through the double doors and down a corridor. 

The wolf nudges his head under Jaskier’s armpit once they’re out of earshot and he chuckles, pushing the massive maw away. “I know, fuck, I’m sorry. It’s a defense mechanism. I don’t know what comes over me but the moment I’m faced with the prick I lose myself in something else. I think it’s the _dissociative issues_ thing again.” He runs his fingers through the thick fur around Geralt’s neck and the wolf huffs.

“I’m guessing that with Krystian here, we need to speed up our plans and leave as soon as possible since he’ll probably be able to bind you to the prince with a nasty curse.” He ventures and the way Geralt’s hackles raise is a good indication of how right he is in his assumption.

“Well, guess we’ll talk about it later. Come on, I’m sure I can intimidate them into giving you the good cuts of meat.” He laughs easily as Geralt bumps him to walk faster, tail wagging excitedly and heading towards the kitchens with renewed interest.

* * *

“Hey, how come they think you haven’t talked to me yet?”

“I’ve been either muzzled or in my wolf form for most of my life here in the castle, the prince is of the belief that I cannot talk at all.”

“That’s fucked up, man.”

“Hm.”

* * *

“Tomorrow morning when the guard starts to change shifts there will be a convenient ruckus in the servants’ quarters that our spy will cause. Then with the new guards not at their posts and the previous day’s ones distracted and tired, we will be able to make a run for it.” Geralt informs him three days after he’d last seen the prince. He nods; they’ve talked over several plans since then and this is just the latest and simplest one that seems to be their best shot.

He’s got their supplies ready and hidden in a bag under the bed. Geralt doesn’t need much other than a change of clothes and Jaskier has a cloak he’d gotten from the guards when he’d asked for an extra blanket for if it gets cold at night. He’s also stored away some of the cured meats and the cheese. They’ll have to survive without bread but Geralt is sure they’ll be fine until they reach their first ally.

“What about taking a horse?” He looks down and into Geralt’s amber eyes. Somehow, he’d ended up with the wolf’s head of white hair in his lap, making braids out of it idly to keep his hands occupied. Geralt really was cuddlier than he looked.

“No horses, you can ride on my back if you need to. Horses draw attention and you need to feed and water them, too risky.” The wolf responds, closing his eyes and humming when Jaskier continues what he was doing – which is effectively _petting_ the other.

Perhaps because he is so relaxed and because of the fact that he presumably feels safe in Jaskier’s presence the prince manages to near the room and open the door without either of them, but more importantly _Geralt,_ noticing.

Geralt is aware of him first, of course, but the wolf can do nothing more than freeze in his position, all of his muscles tensing as Jaskier slowly drags his eyes towards the prince. Toddy, for his part, does a remarkable job of looking like a tomato picked fresh from the stalk.

“What is the meaning of this?!” The prince grinds out. “What are you doing to my Beast?!”

“You know, you really shouldn’t insult people like that.” He sighs, relaxing into the bed further and letting the irritation lead his mouth once again.

The prince’s eyes turn positively radiant with fury and jealousy. “He is not a pet! Is this what you’ve been doing this entire time?! Have you tamed the filthy mutt?! Is that what this is?! What, then, did you offer him? Did you bend over and let him rut you like a bitch!? Did you suck his cock like a depraved-”

Geralt is off the bed before the prince can utter another word, pinning the young heir to the wall by his throat with teeth bared and muscles rippling with the urge to maim and kill.

“Do not disrespect him like that ever again.” Geralt growls out, the tone sounding like it’s ripping his vocal cords apart and Jaskier can only stare in equal parts terror and arousal. The prince’s eyes widen because – right, he doesn’t think Geralt can talk! Christ, what a way to break the news to the guy! The prince chokes and Jaskier watches him dangle there helplessly scrabbling at Geralt’s powerful forearm.

“Geralt, it’s alright, darling. I’ve heard worse from people who mean much more to me than he ever will. Let him go.” He stands and places a gentle hand onto the wolf’s bare shoulder.

The prince slides down the wall with a cough, hands pressing against his throat and trying to get air back into his lungs. He’ll heal, Jaskier knows, but he’ll have a nice ring of bruises around his throat for a couple of days at least. Geralt releases one last growl at the prince before stalking away to stand by the bed, subtly guarding their supplies just in case.

He crouches down by the prince. “Now, I presume that whatever you came here for can wait until tomorrow. I was just about to retire for the night and I hope to not see you until at least lunchtime. Leave if you wish to keep all of your limbs about you.” He waves at the door where two guards stare at them, useless and frozen with fear.

The prince scrambles up and out of the room and Jaskier breathes out. He turns to Geralt with a shaky grin, “That guy, _whew_.” He says nonsensically, trying not to let himself be flustered at the sight of the still-naked Geralt next to the bed. He’s gotten rather good at ignoring that now, he’s had to – lest he pop an awkward boner. Lest Geralt smell how horny he is almost all the time. Talk about _awkward_.

“I'm-” Geralt grimaces. “I apologize.”

“What for?” He frowns, stepping closer to the bed because he genuinely _was_ about to drift off into blissful sleep before they’d been interrupted and getting under the covers easily.

“Were it not for me he wouldn’t have said such lurid things about you – I. I'm sorry.” Geralt turns away and in a moment’s notice, there’s a white wolf in his spot. Jaskier can recognize the sight of avoidance rather well but he lets it go for now.

“Hey,” He pats the blanket and Geralt jumps up onto the bed next to him, the frame of it creaking under the added weight. “It’s alright. He’s just jealous because we’re friends. You probably know he wants you for himself and now you’ve pledged your allegiance to me instead and he’s probably furiously planning my demise as we speak. But it’s alright, we’ll be out of here in the morning and then he won’t ever say anything bad about me where we can hear again, yeah?” The wolf huffs and lays his massive head on top of his stomach and Jaskier groans at the heaviness a little before he resumes his petting.

“It doesn’t bother me. I'm famous where I come from, remember? Millions of people know about me and about my career. Not all of them are well-wishers. There’ll always be people who hate me even though I’ve never done anything to warrant it. They just don't like me, or my personality or my music or the way that I dress or talk or who I date. It’s just how it is and they don’t matter so neither do their opinions. This is no different, dear. This posh little twat is just one in a long line of the people who want me dead for no reason other than me existing.” He chuckles as he remembers the endless sea of hate comments that oftentimes mingle in with the positive ones. Jaskier’s by no means immune but he knows when the hate matters and when it doesn’t and the prince can certainly think whatever he wants as long as Jaskier and Geralt know the truth.

Geralt’s wolf-y body twitches and he wiggles until he’s lying next to Jaskier fully. He chuckles at the wolf’s antics and then throws an arm over the massive frame, fingers digging under the coarse overcoat and into the soft fur of the second layer.

“Goodnight, Geralt. Sweet dreams.”

He drifts off to the comforting sound of Geralt’s wolf-y huffs and the loud beating of his heart.

* * *

He breathes out into the chilly morning air, looking around the corner of the hall and waiting for the signal - which is supposed to be that eerie howl of Geralt's. The wolf had already taken care of the two guards that were stationed outside of Jaskier’s room-cell and then the large shape shifter had fucked off to God knows where, leaving Jaskier to putter around the castle by himself. They hadn’t really discussed the plan in full but Jaskier trusts that Geralt can take care of it on his own for now, and he will try to do the same - even though he only has a vague outline of what he is supposed to do.

He waits patiently, shifting on his feet approximately near where Geralt said he should stay. He waits until a loud sound rings through the empty courtyard and the guards that were shuffling towards their quarters and the ones that had begun emerging from the barracks both head for the servants’ building in a hurry. He sucks in a sharp breath and hefts the bag of supplies over his shoulder. Levering himself onto the windowsill, he vaults outside and into the crispy, tall grass underneath. He crouches down to avoid being in anyone's sightline and looks around. 

Fortunately, there’s no one in the courtyard. And Jaskier can certainly see why.

There’s fire raging in one of the side buildings at the far end of the castle, thick plumes of smoke billowing out of blown-up windows. _That’s some distraction,_ he thinks blithely as he hurries towards the wall where Geralt had said he’d be waiting. It’s still dark out and the castle has been alerted to the fire so they’ll be ignored even if someone sees them. He spots the large figure of the wolf easy enough and looks away as Geralt turns back into a man.

“I didn’t think they’d blow up a building,” He mutters darkly, slightly worried about the innocent servants getting hurt.

“It’s still in one piece, no?” Geralt grunts and tugs him closer. Jaskier barely has enough time to let out an undignified squeak of surprise before he’s being hoisted up and practically _thrown_ onto the tall wall.

“I could have done that myself,” He hisses, more than slightly insulted at the lack of faith in his wall-climbing skills, but mostly for complaint's sake.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts as per tradition and does what Jaskier would have done but with so much more ease that it makes Jaskier glad that the other had launched him up instead of letting him struggle embarrassingly on his own.

Geralt drops down with a thud and holds his arms out. Jaskier only stares at him for a brief moment of confusion before it dawns on him that he needs to jump. He shakes his arms out and then does his best to push away from the wall.

“Oh, that’ll bruise for sure.” He whines as Geralt’s fingers dig into his waist upon catching him.

“You’ll heal.” Geralt grunts and begins the shift again. Jaskier watches, fascinated with how swift the change is and how seamless the other makes it look. The wolf turns to him and Jaskier shudders under the stare of those yellow eyes.

“Alright, okay. If I’m too heavy make sure to drop me.” He approaches cautiously and then climbs on clumsily. Geralt is essentially the size of a pack mule and takes his weight easily, starting an easy trot through the forest surrounding the castle.

“Good fucking riddance,” He mutters as they draw further away from the castle walls. He pulls the cloak he has on closer to his body and grips the longer mane around Geralt’s neck. The fur underneath the overcoat is still so soft and Jaskier allows himself to enjoy the feeling as they trot through the forest hurriedly.

It takes a long while for the sun to rise properly. The clouds above are heavy and the forest is dense enough that the canopy doesn’t let sunlight through its branches very often. He takes stock of the trees and the bushes and flowers and doesn’t find anything noticeably wrong with the surroundings as they travel. For a world that’s supposed to be so far removed from his own, there is little that is visibly different on the surface. Aside from the whole _magic_ bit, it just looked like the Germanic parts of Europe.

Once the trees become sparse and he’s finally able to discern that it’s around noon, he unclenches his fingers and pats Geralt’s great, big wolf head.

“Down, please. I’m cramping up and my junk’s bruised.” He whines as Geralt huffs and stops by a large fallen log to let him lean against it as he dismounts. “Oh, Christ. I always did hate horseback riding.” He bends down and stretches out as Geralt shifts back into his naked, mostly-human self.

“We can’t linger, they’ll be coming after us.” The shifter grunts, tugging Jaskier by the strap of the bag hard enough for him to stumble and pitch to the side. Geralt catches him, because _of course_ he does and Jaskier realizes that his life has become a romance movie in the worst sense of the genre.

“What, Geralt? I can’t read minds.” He frowns at the wolf as he rummages through the bag on his hip.

“Clothes and water.” Geralt stares at him imploringly and Jaskier bats his hands away.

“Could have just asked,” He rolls his eyes and pulls out the requested items. “We’re walking from now on?”

“Yes,” Geralt points to the horizon. “No cover for a while. I’ll shift when we get to the next forest.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” He squints at the kilometers of empty space in front of them. Nothing but green plains for as far as the eye can see on one side, and then a hilly little protrusion on the other with, of course, the forest behind them. His stolen boots are definitely not meant for walking but he suspects that Geralt won’t mind too much if Jaskier asks to be carried when he gets too tired.

“A neutral zone.” Geralt grunts, “A place where they’re not allowed to harm us. We need to meet with an old friend of mine and get some things before we go after Ciri.”

“How long?” He sighs and helps himself to a bit of water as well.

“Two,” Geralt eyes him warily as he reconsiders, “Three days worth of travel on foot to the nearest portal.”

“Excellent, love me a good portal!” He claps his hands together so that they’ll stop shaking. The last three times he’s encountered a portal had been _earth-tilting_ to say the least. Who knows what will happen the next time he's in the vicinity of one. He doesn’t really want to find out, but there’s apparently no other way and if Geralt says that they’re going there then they’re going there, end of story whether he likes it or not.

Something must show on his face because Geralt taps the underside of his chin so that he’ll meet the other’s eyes and _oh, Christ_ what a cliché move to get butterflies over. _Get a damn grip, Jaskier._

“It’ll be fine. The _doormaster_ is someone I trust. And the portals can only be opened in certain locations unless you are, as Ciri was, powerful enough and backed up by blood magic. Thaddeus doesn’t have anyone like that on hand and reaching the king would take too long.” The wolf rumbles all the while keeping eye contact with Jaskier who can feel himself physically growing warmer in the face.

“Right, um. I’ll believe it when I see it, mate.” He blinks rapidly to wet his eyes because he’s apparently been in a staring contest with the wolf shifter.

Geralt scrunches up his nose at the term of camaraderie as usual and nods decisively. “Then you shall.”

And then they’re off, trotting through knee-high grass and weeds towards this unknown portal location.

* * *

The first day of their journey, once he’s certain that he can walk no more and his feet are killing him right and proper, he makes Geralt stop for the night.

They are still in the middle of nowhere so Geralt promptly refuses to light a fire and instead curls his big, wolf body around him instead. Admittedly, Jaskier enjoys that much more than he would any fire. The wolf puts out heat like a furnace and he’s softer than any blanket Jaskier’s ever had so it’s a wonderful ordeal, really. But it’s a bit of a downer not being able to talk to man-Geralt and instead having to talk _at_ Geralt’s wolf-y ears. Though, it’s not like Geralt talks much in general. Sure he answers when Jaskier asks, but Jaskier is often too scared to bother him when the shifter is doing his best to keep them both alive and incognito for as long as possible.

And there’s a problem in all of that that Jaskier isn’t quite sure how to solve.

The problem is that Jaskier _wants_ to talk to Geralt. He wants to know what the man is all about, what his soulful and sad, yellow eyes had seen and witnessed. He wants to know what Geralt thinks about when he’s silent and where he’d gotten all of those scars. And that’s _worrying._ It’s worrying because Jaskier can’t allow himself to want anything with Geralt. He can’t allow this weird _appreciation_ he has for the man to go past the shallow sort he also has for the man’s appearance. He can’t allow the inside of his stomach to warm up every time Geralt looks at him or touches him or drops his massive wolf head onto his lap in a rare display of affection.

Christ, it had only really been little more than a week and Jaskier’s already _so_ screwed.

“I miss her, you know.” He mumbles as he gazes up at the stars above them. There aren’t any constellations that he recognizes there but the stars _are_ exceptionally bright. Way brighter than he’s ever seen them back home.

“I can’t imagine how you feel; how you _felt_ when she was gone, that first time around. Must have been terrifying. I miss her like crazy now.” He yawns, wiggling his bare toes to get some blood in them. “I never thought I’d grow attached so fast but I suppose there’s a fierce mother hen instinct in me, after all.”

Geralt huffs in turn, burrowing his maw into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

He pats the wolf’s head. “I know we’ll get her back, but tomorrow can’t come soon enough.”

* * *

The next night they spend on the precipice of a forest. He watches as Geralt’s wolf body weaves through the trees to clear the premises before returning to his side and urging him to climb on. He’s fairly tired from yet another day of walking but there’s nothing to it, they need to get to Ciri and the sooner they reach the portal the better. He supposes he can doze a little on top of the world’s most uncomfortable amusement park ride.

It’s far too dark for him to really see anything but vague shapes of foliage and rocks, and yet he feels completely at ease. Geralt’s furnace-like body keeps him warm and the huffed breaths provide something to focus on that’s not the sounds of creatures lurking in the night. He thinks that as long as Geralt is with him, he’ll be fine. He really probably shouldn’t rely on the man this much. And yet – even with the practice he’s been getting and the whole _resistant-to-magic_ thing, he’s almost helpless. He wants to help Geralt out with Ciri, he does, but he’s beginning to suspect that he’ll only get in the way if he goes with Geralt. He doesn’t think that the wolf really needs him. Perhaps it will be better for Jaskier to stay in this neutral zone where he is safe. Maybe he can keep to himself and let Geralt handle it. Surely, there are more people that are willing to help Geralt out. Yes, of course, the wolf has to have someone in the neutral zone waiting for him and willing to help. There is no way that Geralt would be rushing into whatever castle Ciri is being held at on his own. Is there?

Well, Jaskier’s not the best judge of character but Geralt doesn’t seem like the crazy type. No, the man must have _some_ sort of plan. A plan that probably doesn’t involve Jaskier, anyway. He’s worrying over nothing.

His mind, however, isn’t as convinced. His thoughts keep running in circles, making him more anxious by the moment. He keeps thinking about being left alone and then being included and neither of the options is practically appealing at the moment - and it all makes him ache deeply and all over. He feels his chest tightening in a way that it hasn’t in a long while now. He surges up, making Geralt stumble a little.

“Down, let me down.” He whines as his lungs refuse to expand, refuse to work properly.

Geralt stops as commanded and he collapses onto the ground with a pant. His knee takes the brunt of his weight and he winces but it’s a pain second to the one in his ribcage. He forces in a breath of surprise as warm palms press against the line of his ribs and he finds himself tugged back into a wide chest.

“In and out, follow me.” Geralt rumbles and Jaskier feels the wolf’s chest expand, his own following shortly on instinct. He feels dizzy from the fit, feels like he’s a stranger in his own body but he also figures that he was due a freak-out by this point. It was inevitable.

It takes a couple of minutes of breathing in tandem with Geralt for him to calm down, mind focused on the ten points of heat spanning the breadth of his ribs and the man’s nose under his ear. He shudders back into himself, all at once aware of the fact that Geralt is sitting behind him on the ground and keeping him _very_ close.

“Shit, I'm sorry,” He croaks. “Haven’t had one of those since I was in my early teens.”

“Ciri used to have... _fits_ like that in the beginning.” Geralt says with a heavy sigh. “She couldn’t – they were far more dangerous because back then she couldn’t control her powers, and if she got overwhelmed like that, she’d destroy things. I can’t explain it properly because, well, her powers are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

He listens to the deep tone, barely paying attention to the words as Geralt speaks more than he has in the past two days. It’s nice. It’s relaxing and he feels his shoulders droop a little, his body leaning back into Geralt’s hold.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you. You’ve taken all of this extremely well and I should have let you rest.” Geralt admits mournfully, the point of his nose dragging down Jaskier’s neck until it’s at his nape. He shivers at the contact and tries hard not to think about how nice it feels to have Geralt this close to him.

“No – no, it’s. It’s the lack of information, I think. I just, I got to thinking about what you’re planning and where we’ll go from the neutral zone and if I'm even coming with considering I'm pretty useless out there. Aside from being, like, a meat shield. Cannon fodder.” He manages to string the words together despite his throat’s best efforts to close in on itself.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls shortly. “You’re _not_ useless and nobody is going to use you as a _meat shield._ I promise I’ll explain as soon as we reach the neutral zone but the risk of someone in these woods overhearing anything is far too great to talk now.”

“The hills have eyes?” He chuckles a little at Geralt’s confused noise.

“The King, too, has spies.” Geralt responds and extracts himself from behind Jaskier (much to his displeasure). The wolf holds out a hand and hauls him up as soon as Jaskier accepts. Then there the wolf goes, engaging him in another weird little stare-down that makes Jaskier too hot under the collar.

“We’re just outside the portal spot, the place is called Su’petar. Can you walk a bit more?” The wolf reaches up and, well, there’s no other way to explain the action – the wolf _pets_ his head, gently running his fingers through Jaskier’s messy hair and pushing it out of his face.

His heart gives a painful thud as his stomach clenches - most decidedly not in _hunger_ this time. He nods mutely, gripping the strap of their supply bag as Geralt nods in turn. They set off again.

They walk until they reach a clearing that houses a little cabin surrounded by tents, and what appear to be several traveler carriages. They’re big and ornate, and they’re colourful with intricate detailing all over. The horses are nearby and they don't appear to be bothered by Geralt’s sudden appearance out of the bushes.

He waits as the wolf, now back in his travelling clothes again, knocks on the cabin door. And it must be the middle of the night by now, surely whoever they wake will not be happy to see them at such an hour.

The door opens and a woman steps out, eyeing Geralt critically. Her hair is fair and the length of her waist, she’s dressed in all black, an intricate dress that has designs matching that of the red carriage in the back - surely marking it as hers.

“Never thought I’d see your ugly mug again, Geralt.” She greets and then finally grins, blue eyes lighting up as Geralt huffs out in annoyance.

“We need passage to Dzakh’ovo.” Geralt cuts to the chase and the woman’s eyes slide from the wolf towards him, head tilting.

“Curious,” She walks out, barefoot and unconcerned by the rough terrain of the forest floor. She comes closer to him and inspects him much like the prince’s sorcerer had. She’s less stoic about it, though. Her eyes glimmer with excitement as she presses a finger in the middle of his chest and – nothing happens despite the glow of the digit.

“Why, Geralt!” She hushes excitedly, “Wherever did you find such a curiosity? He’s absolutely amazing.”

“Not now, Greta. Can you get us to Dzakh’ovo or not?” Geralt growls, coming to stand by Jaskier’s side protectively.

She waves him off, “Of course I can, but you have to tell me.”

“If I tell you, you get no coin.” Geralt barters back and the woman pouts at them both.

“Fine,” She places her hands on her hips as she waits.

“A vow, Greta, of silence. This doesn’t leave your camp.” Geralt presses closer to her, offering his arm out and she glances between them, the playfulness dropping from her frame.

“A vow of silence,” She confirms, clasping Geralt’s hand in her own and the place where their palms meet glows briefly before she turns back to him.

“I'm Greta as you may have already concluded, pleased to meet you.” She bows her head a little and Jaskier shoots Geralt a look of surprise before nodding back.

“I – um. I guess you can call me Jaskier, I'm – not exactly from around here.” He crosses his arms over his chest uneasily and Greta chuckles.

“I’ll say!”

“He’s – Ciri opened a portal. To the other world. She – she found the spell her grandmother used hidden between the lines of the books they were giving her to teach her how to control her powers. She ended up in his home. And when they sent me to get her on the next new moon I stayed. But by the next new moon, they’d come for us and they took him with.” Geralt surmises curtly, not at all looking like he’s enjoying himself and Jaskier can commiserate.

“Huh, how’d she open the portal?” Greta asks and Jaskier would really want to know as well.

“Blood magic and the daggers.” Geralt shrugs. “And we were on-location with one of the King’s more powerful sorcerers for the next two times.”

“Ah, the strength of muddled blood.” Greta shakes her head and motions for them to come to the centre of the clearing where a circle of rocks is outlining some scorched ground. “I’ll never understand the logic.”

“Hm,” Geralt nods in agreement and steers Jaskier towards the circle.

“Now, this might tingle a little but you’ll be perfectly fine.” Greta pats him on the shoulder and then looks at Geralt meaningfully.

“You know he can’t stay, right?”

The words stop the both of them in their steps, Geralt growing tense behind him as Jaskier’s mind races again.

“Eventually, the laws of this world will start to either accept him or they’ll try and expel him. Either way, bad consequences.” Greta elaborates slowly as she spreads her arms and focuses on the ground.

“Yes, I know.” Geralt grunts back even as Jaskier is still trying to process the fact that this world is either going to try and eat him or _yeet_ him into space or somewhere _worse._ “Thank you for this.”

“Always a pleasure,” She grins and the ground begins to glow.

Jaskier has only a moment to panic before his stomach drops and he finds himself standing somewhere else entirely.

There’s an identical circle on the ground and Geralt tugs him along when he stares at the smooth stones for a moment too long. When he brings his eyes up to look at the town around him, he finds it looking very quaint. Dzakh’ovo is not dissimilar to some towns in Europe he’s seen – specifically in the Czech Republic and Germany. The buildings aren’t tall but they’re wide and crisscrossed by visible beams. The town inns swarming with people dressed – well, dress _definitely not like him._ He winces as he realizes that he’s going to stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of the crowd and hurriedly pulls out the shirt that is Geralt’s spare. He tugs it on to cover the band crewneck he has on in case anyone takes too much notice to him, and Geralt shoots him a scandalized look – probably because Jaskier is encroaching on his delicate wolf-y sensibilities. Well, the wolf can deal until they get their promised supplies.

He huddles close to the shifter’s large form as people scatter out of the wolf’s way as if it’s instinctual. Jaskier thinks it has to be the sheer size of Geralt’s massive shoulders that’s terrifying everyone because there’s no way Geralt’s been anywhere near this place in years. He does, however, appreciate that he doesn’t have to bump into any of the questionably-smelling townsfolk around him. And as long as he’s clinging to the back of Geralt’s black shirt, he’s able to look around and take in the novelty of being in the vague middle ages-esque setting. It almost felt like a dream – except his entire body is entirely too achy for it to be but a dream. His feet are sore and his back is pulsating with pain and he can’t wait to just lie down for a bit but by the looks of it, there’s still some walking left to be done.

“Who’s in charge of this town, anyway?” He grunts as a squabble over some apples breaks out in front of them.

“A powerful sorceress-”

“ _Of-fucking- cours_ e!” He throws his hands up in distress. “Getting real tired of that stupid phrase.”

“Well, _it’s true_.” Geralt defends, looking back at him huffily and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, this world’s full of ‘em.” He relents, letting Geralt continue speaking.

“She smites anyone who dares bring outside politics into the city and none dare oppose her. She’s also a – a friend. She was supposed to be Ciri’s mentor if the king hadn’t taken the child the moment her powers had manifested.” Geralt elaborates a little better, his voice tentative and hushed enough that Jaskier barely hears him over noise of the market they’re passing through.

“She gonna help?” He bumps into the other’s back as the wolf stops and then stumbles when Geralt takes a sharp left.

“Not – not exactly.” The wolf grumbles and Jaskier snorts at him in amusement, of course not.

“Let me guess, she won’t get involved in politics either?” He clutches at the other’s arm as a random man on the street leers at him appreciatively.

“Yes, it would make her unreliable, _two-faced_.” Geralt smiles and tugs him closer as they dive into the darker, shadier parts of the town. He tries hard not to enjoy the other’s arm over his shoulders but fails miserably when he feels something inside him settle at the gesture, nerves fading.

“Are we going to see her now?” He eyes the dead-end alley they’ve entered and the tavern at the end of the road.

“Not yet. Tomorrow, _preferably,_ but she _is_ a busy woman.” Geralt huffs in that wolf-y way that always makes Jaskier want to giggle. “We might have to wait a couple of days.”

“What until then?” He pouts at the back of the wolf’s head ineffectively. They turn into an alley that seems to end in a large building with a sign hanging over the door: a wolf’s head painted on the wood, silvery and menacing with gleaming, yellow eyes.

“We’re visiting another old friend of mine.” Geralt hums and Jaskier fights the urge to stomp his foot against the ground.

“Yes, you do seem chock full of those, mate.” He crosses his arms in his ire but quickly realizes that letting go of the back of Geralt’s shirt leaves him feeling vulnerable so he retreats to his original position.

“All of my friends are _old friends_ because I’ve not seen them in years.” Geralt states simply and Jaskier wants to kick himself for being so insensitive and whiny.

“Shite, sorry, I – yeah. I’m going to stop complaining now.” He snaps his jaw shut and Geralt shoots him a curious look over his shoulder like he cannot possibly solve the _puzzle_ that is Jaskier.

They come to stand under the sign and Jaskier sees that the building is a tavern of some sort –and isn’t that strange? They have _taverns_ here, how _quaint_. He rouses from his musings as Geralt’s massive fist slams against the wooden door with purpose three times. It’s a noise entirely too loud in the quiet alley and he glances around nervously to see if anyone’s paying attention to them. Thankfully, there is only a man passed out in the corner where the wolf-house meets the one enclosing the alley on the left side. The man is possibly dead, even. With how still his chest is and the size of the bottle next to him, Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised.

“Open up, you old coot!” Geralt shouts suddenly and Jaskier startles enough for the bag to slip down his shoulder at the motion. He grumbles as he rights it; trust Geralt to continuously cause him distress. 

“Quit your shoutin’!” The drunkard from the corner shouts right back and Geralt’s eyes snap to the man.

“Gods,” The wolf mutters and begins to approach the curled figure cautiously.

“He’s out fishin’ for the day,” The drunken man mumbles and Geralt stops within the man’s grasp, nose visibly scrunching up in distaste.

“Then perhaps you can help instead, Vesemir.” Geralt grunts out tightly and Jaskier sees how the wolf’s shoulders tense as soon as the man’s head snaps up in surprise.

“By the Gods, is it really you or another drunken hallucination?” The man, Vesemir apparently, reaches up and Geralt smacks his hand away with distaste.

“I’m surprised you’d found a strong enough liquor to get you this pissed. What has become of you?” Geralt steps back as the man stumbles to his feet.

“Doesn’t last long but long enough to give me respite.” The old man responds, gaze briefly flitting to Jaskier before returning to focus on Geralt’s form. “Never thought I’d see your ugly mug again, boy.”

“Likewise,” Geralt sighs, sounding more resigned now that the man is obviously coming to his senses.

“A lot has happened, I take it?” Vesemir rustles around the many rags he has on and comes up with a key ring, handing it over to Geralt so that the wolf may open the door.

“To put it lightly, yes.” Geralt pushes open the creaky door and shoulders his way inside.

“And the straggler?” Vesemir’s eyes meet Jaskier’s again and Geralt stiffens in the faint light of the mostly-empty tavern hall.

“This is Jaskier, he’s – uh, a bard.” Geralt winces visibly and Jaskier tries not to take it personally. He’s sure that Geralt has his reason for being tense and on edge and as far as Jaskier can conclude, this man is someone that Geralt hasn’t seen for a long while.

“He smells funny, and – like you. Almost offensively so.” The drunkard sniffles and circles around Jaskier’s form – he’s getting really tired of people eyeing him like he’s a piece of meat or a lab experiment gone wrong.

“He smells _fine_ , your nose’s broken.” Geralt growls primly, offended on Jaskier’s behalf even if his own words aren’t as praising as Jaskier would have liked them to be. “And I’ve been with him for a while now, of course he smells like me.”

“Sure, sure.” The man nods sagely like he’s accepting the answer but Jaskier can see the glint of mockery in the man’s eyes. He’s not sure he likes it.

“Well, Geralt? Can the old fart help us or not?” He asks, cutting of whatever it is that Vesemir was about to chuck into the air.

“Seeing as he is now, I doubt it.” Geralt steps closer to him, sneering at the man and it seems to take the drunkard aback some.

“A lot has changed, indeed.” Vesemir mutters and rounds the bar, rummaging where they can’t see him for more alcohol presumably.

“Let’s just hope the _other_ old man is more presentable.” Geralt grunts and nudges Jaskier to sit at one of the tables. He follows mostly because he’s still somewhat exhausted and his feet are hurting something fierce. Oh, how he longs for the comfort of his own bed.

He sits down into a chair heavily and leans his shoulder to the side, coming to rest against Geralt’s hip where the wolf stands ever so still and statuesque. The tavern looks rickety and like it hadn’t seen a customer in years but the interior is still pleasantly clean and aesthetically rustic. It’s have made for a good picture if he had his phone. Christ, he misses the internet!

“Seeing as you’re here, boy,” Vesemir straightens up and slams a bottle of something pink-tinged and vile-looking onto the counter. “Am I correct to assume that you’d escaped the King’s hold?”

“Yes.” Geralt grunts. “But I’m not here to _hide and wallow in self-pity_.” The wolf sneers again and Jaskier wonders what had transpired between these two men to cause such animosity in Geralt.

“Don’t get your hackles up, mutt, you know I had no choice.” Vesemir takes a swig from the bottle and Geralt spits at the ground, incensed. Jaskier reaches up automatically and wraps a hand around the other’s wrist to keep him still, and the wolf relaxes minutely at the contact.

“You could have fought with the rest of us. You should have fought with the rest of us!” Geralt growls, his teeth sharpening in his mouth as Jaskier stills at the anger radiating off of the wolf in waves. He fights with himself and decides that Geralt wouldn’t really hurt him so he keeps his hold on the wolf instead of retreating.

“Now listen here, _boy,_ ” Vesemir grinds out, hands slamming against the hardwood counter and making the bottle bounce in place a little.

“No,” Geralt barks out loudly. Jaskier watches with baited breath as the wolf struggled to regain control over the shift that wants to overtake him.

“No,” Geralt repeats, steadily this time. “You ran away. You watched them die trying to protect her and you watched me being taken, and you _ran_ like the coward that you are!”

“I ran so I could come for you!” Vesemir shouts, his voice ringing out through the room and Jaskier inhales sharply as a howl sounds in the distance.

“But you didn’t!” Geralt’s shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him rapidly. “I thought you would, at first. I thought you would come for me, for your own, for your _pack,_ but you didn’t. She died and you did nothing. All those vows, all that you taught us and all the promised loyalty...” The wolf shakes his head in a harsh motion and tugs out of Jaskier’s hold. He watches, feeling like he’d just weathered a storm, as Geralt slams the door on his way out of the tavern.

“Wow, mate, that’s fuckin’ shitty of you, innit?” He cuts Vesemir with a stern look before he follows after Geralt, leaving the man to stew in his own thoughts.

He finds Geralt in the stables thee houses down the narrow alley. He’s petting one of the horses and whispering to it something that Jaskier’s not privy to. He watches as those big hands gentle over the horse’s mane and tug a few strands out to braid it.

“I’m really starting to believe the thing you said about not many good people existing in this world.” He approaches cautiously, he doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if Geralt lashed out at him now.

The wolf grunts, still angry but somewhat calmer in the presence of the horses that whinny for their attention and snacks. “I wasn’t expecting to find him here. It makes sense in retrospect.”

“I wouldn’t know,” He shrugs because much of Geralt’s past – if not all of it – is still a mystery to Jaskier. He’s way beyond curious but he’s not going to prod and poke, not when Geralt is concerned.

“Where better to hide in shame than the neutral zone.” Geralt shrugs, hands spasming where they’re braiding like he wants to clutch at the long strands but is holding himself back in order not to hurt the animal.

“What happened, darling? How’d the king capture you?” He asks gently, hoping beyond hope that Geralt won’t get mad or go all _sulky_ on him. The wolf’s no fun when he’s _sulking._ He knows that it’s a difficult topic for the other, obviously, but he’s still anxious for answers. He’s trusting Geralt with his life and he barely knows the man, he hopes that Geralt will see his inquiries as an act of self-preservation instead of nosiness.

“As born wolves, shifters, we get sorted into schools as soon as our shifts manifest. I was a part of the School of the Wolf. The schools were there to train us to be a part of the Royal Guard for any kingdom interested. So that’s what I was at the time, I was in the Queen’s aegis in the kingdom of Cintra.” Geralt runs rough fingers through his hair and Jaskier holds out a hand, drawing the other closer.

Geralt helps him hop onto the low partition wall so that he doesn’t have to stand and he busies himself with braiding Geralt’s white locks while the other speaks. He understands that Geralt may not want to face him while he talks so this is probably the best solution for it. Though, not the most healthy for Jaskier’s own sanity, being presented with the wide muscled back and all, but – he’ll bear it for the other’s sake.

“I was still young when we were assigned to Queen Calanthe’s guard. She was – she’s Ciri’s grandmother. The portrait in your gallery, that’s her. She had retreated there once her daughter, Ciri's mother, was ready to take the throne. Everything was different back then, it was almost like your world. There were many various kingdoms with different rulers and courts. But there was a war brewing.” Geralt’s voice drops into a low rumble and Jaskier shudders.

He almost feels like he should be taking notes. Like this is a history lesson that he will be quizzed on later. But it’s not. It’s Geralt’s life story and Jaskier is being handed the information easier than he thought possible. But maybe – maybe Geralt is tired of not talking, of not being able to talk. Maybe the great big oaf just needs to vent like a regular person.

“As soon as princess Pavetta took the throne, king Emhyr went on the offensive. He saw the princess as weak-willed and feeble, unfit to rule her land. The king started his warpath, subjugating kingdom after kingdom until he reached Ciri’s home.” Geralt pauses to pat the horse’s head again, calming the animal. “Calanthe was forced to come back because Pavetta didn’t want to engage in battle, she wasn’t a warrior like her mother was and she – Pavetta was in love with the King’s son.”

“Toddy?!” He screeches immediately, aghast at the idea of anyone caring for that insufferable brat.

Geralt chuckles, “No, his firstborn, Duny. He was a kind man, very different from his father and they’d been together for many years in secret already. But as the King reached the borders of the kingdom, Calanthe had had enough. She took the army and the guard into battle to defend the walls of Cintra. We did our best, we fought for the kingdom, but many lives were lost. It ended with the remaining kingdoms uniting under Pavetta’s rule to keep the king at bay. I was captured during the last stand and Vesemir ran away as the arrows struck Calanthe in the chest. Duny was killed in that battle, too. Nine months later, Queen Pavetta gave birth to princess Cirilla, rightful heir of Cintra and the associated kingdoms.”

“Shit, so the King is – he’s Ciri’s grandfather. Does he know?” He grips the other’s shoulders, turning Geralt around to meet his eyes.

“No, he does not.” Geralt grimaces, “It is bothersome. He wishes to marry her to _Toddy_ once she is under his control.”

“Oh, that’s fucked.” He winces, fingers fiddling with the collar of Geralt’s shirt absentmindedly. “So you were captured way back then? Geralt, mate, I’m so glad you got away.”

“As am I.” Geralt nods gravely but his shoulders seem more relaxed than earlier. He seems to be breathing easier as well and Jaskier’s not the kind to toot his own horn but – he _is_ quite the shoulder to cry on, or so he's heard.

“I’m also glad Ciri got away, if only for a little while. How old was she when she was taken?” He implores again, not actually surprised when Geralt shakes his head this time.

“Perhaps another time, the other old fool is approaching.” The wolf motions to the entrance of the barn-like structure and Jaskier turns in time to see a man with two primitive-looking fishing rods slung over his shoulder pass by.

“Ugh, looks like it’s going to be catfish for dinner tonight.” Geralt wrinkles his nose and Jaskier snorts at the mundane comment, so utterly different from the topic at hand just a couple of moments prior. He lets Geralt help him down from the wall and with one final pat to the mare’s head, they head back for the tavern.

Geralt doesn’t bother knocking when he opens the door this time. He barges in, obtrusive and larger than life itself as usual. 

“Mousesack.” The wolf grinds out as they observe the newcomer trying to drag the passed-out form of Vesemir off the counter and failing while he’s at it.

“Don’t just stand there, help me dump him on the ground!” The bearded man waves at them helplessly, dropping the bucket of fish in the process and spilling its contents across the floor.

Jaskier watches, morbidly fascinated, as the fish slaps against the wood and in the quickly-disappearing puddle of water. He shifts his gaze up to where Geralt and the man are hauling Vesemir’s unconscious form up the short flight of stairs and into one of the rooms seen from the indoor balcony. He wonders if this sudden state of the older wolf being severely pissed off his rockers was due to Geralt’s harsh – but fair – words. It’s highly possible that the man feels guilt now that he’s being faced with his past mistakes. He knows how easy it is to drown oneself in booze and other pleasures to try and block out unfavourable parts of one’s life. He doesn’t blame the man but he’s still on Geralt’s side in their feud so he decides not to offer his sympathies. 

The two come ambling down the stairs again and somehow, Geralt looks even more sour than before. He wants to go to him, wants to urge him to shift so that they can cuddle in a corner somewhere until things are better and Geralt doesn’t look so scraped raw and hollowed out.

“So you’re back.” The bearded man’s eyes flit over him as well and Jaskier is very tired of being an afterthought. “And you brought a friend.”

“I assure you, I would not be here if I could get to Yen tonight.” Geralt sneers back.

“Oh, I don't think you’ll be able to get to Yen at all.” The man scoffs derisively and something in Jaskier _loosens_ in irritation and his jaw unhinges without his permission.

“Does _anyone_ in this fucking place _not_ hate you? Geralt, I thought you said these were your friends! Why is everyone so mean to you?” He whines, theatrically throwing himself at the wolf and letting the man catch his flailing form. He’s satisfied at the fact that Mousesack’s shoulders tense up and that his mouth tugs downward at the comment, seemingly disgruntled at being called out so openly like this.

“Mousesack, this is Jaskier, he’s helping me.” Geralt stumbles over the explanation – presumably due to the armful of Jaskier he has.

“ _Helping_. I see.” Mousesack snorts and Jaskier huffs out a silent laugh as well.

“What happened, Geralt?” The man’s amused tone drops completely and his blue eyes grow sad as he takes in Geralt’s miserable expression.

“Far too much. Ciri’s been taken to Vahr Azh’dyin. They found a sorceress willing to try composing a binding spell. We need supplies and then we’re going after her.” Geralt elaborates as he rights Jaskier and leaves him swaying on his feet. He hums in support of the wolf and the man wrinkles his nose at him again.

“And he?” Mousesack points to him and Jaskier bats the other’s hand away, already irritated at the rude treatment that’s been ever-present through every interaction he’s had with people who were not Geralt in this stupid world. He misses _etiquette_. 

“Christ, someone would have knocked you on your arse for being this rude back home! I’m so fucking glad we’ve progressed past the need for overblown masculinity oozing out of the ears of our society and that we have fucking electricity and television and the internet!” He reels off a couple of curses in Polish for good measure as the two stand in silence and stare.

He doesn’t like this. He feels silly throwing a tantrum but he doesn’t like taking the backseat when it’s his life on the line. Sure, Geralt is there for him but Jaskier is not used to being dependent on someone else for help. He’s always been self sufficient and independent, he’s been taught to be on his own from an early age and now, in a world where things are so far out of his control, he’s forced to cling to Geralt’s coattails and trust the man he barely knows to keep him alive.

He’s an emotional mess, swinging between being content and being upset and angry with everything and everyone. And yet.

He doesn’t regret it, coming here. Not necessarily.

At least this way, he gets to help save Cirilla. He gets to help this pure child that had helped him though his imposed exile, that trusted him to keep her safe – that he’d _failed._ Because he did, didn’t he? He promised that he won’t let them take her and instead he’d been taken in turn as well. God, he was useless.

He regrets being so fucking uncertain in his every step, though. He wishes he could find some stability, wishes he could act the part of a citizen here without a problem but his upper middle class commodities have left him feeling wrong-footed in a world abiding by the laws of Charles Darwin – survival of the fittest.

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls his name and he blinks up at the wolf who now has his face in his palms. “Julian.” The wolf repeats and Jaskier takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, _sorry._ Sometimes it’s hard to comprehend I’m really here and stuck in this wretched world of no WiFi and bitter old men.” He smile shakily and Geralt nods.

“Not for long. After we rescue Ciri, we’ll bring you home. I promise.” The wolf presses their forehead’s together and Jaskier lets the other comfort him. It’s a small gesture full of warmth and it helps – it’ll keep him going for now but thinking about the situation – he knows this’ll happen a couple more times at least before he gets to go back to his fortress of solitude.

“I’ll hold you to that,” He smiles shakily and pats Geralt on the chest, ignoring the way Mousesack seems to be staring holes into the side of his head.

“Melitele’s tits; he’s immune!” The words burst out of the man’s mouth seemingly on their own and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Yes, he is. He’s from the other world. He was taken when they went after Ciri. So whether she likes it or not, I need to see Yen. She’s the only one that can open the portal nearest to Vahr Azh’dyin. It’s been sealed for decades and we’re running out of time.” Geralt elaborates and Jaskier gets the sense that the wolf is talking this much for his sake.

“Yes – well. She’d certainly be able to open the Zmayevac portal.” Mousesack runs a hand over his beard in contemplation. “I don’t know if she’ll be willing though, not for you.”

“It’s not for me. No, it’s for Ciri. For the Queen and for the Kingdom of Cintra.” Geralt growls lowly, obviously irked by the man’s words.

“Spurned lover?” He asks lightly, curious at the reaction this conversation is getting out of usually-stoic Geralt the Wolfman. He feels a surge of _something_ he doesn’t like at the thought of someone breaking Geralt’s heart and tossing it out into the trash.

“Something like that,” Geralt looks away pointedly, the line between his brows once again prominent as he frowns.

“Well, whatever it is, saving Ciri is more important than any grudge either of you might be holding.” He states boldly, firm enough in tone that Geralt’s startled eyes turn to him again.

The wolf nods slowly, seemingly taken aback, “Yes. You’re right.”

“Hm, _that’s_ not something you see every day.” Mousesack murmurs and then turns to his bucket of fish, reaching in and grabbing one with his bare hand. “Fisherman’s soup tonight, boys, go make yourselves comfortable and try not to start any more fights with Vesemir. He’s old and a fool.”

“Come on,” He sees Geralt shoots one final glare at Mousesack before Jaskier finds himself being herded up the stairs and into one of the rooms.

“An eventful day,” He struggles with finding better words and fails short to find any appropriate to their situation. He hasn’t had much time to process. Between training in the king’s castle with Geralt and being on the run, he’s only been allowed two freak-outs so far and he needs a good night’s sleep before he loses it completely. He eyes the one bed and wonders if Geralt will be joining him or if he’ll stay in one of the other rooms and finds himself miserable at the thought of spending the night without Geralt’s wolfy snores and huffs lulling him to sleep.

He turns to the wolf who’s looking out the window pointedly. “Hey, um, Geralt, mate. I’m not sure if I trust these guys-”

“They’re friends. They’re old bastards but they’re good people.” Geralt admits, albeit reluctantly.

“No, yeah, I get that. But I’d – just. Would you mind sleeping in here tonight?” He wrings his hands together, wincing at how stupid he sounds even to his own ears.

“Where else would I sleep?” Geralt tilts his head, a genuinely confused look crossing his face and a short laugh bursts out of Jaskier’s mouth in surprise.

“Never change, Geralt, never change.” He shakes his head fondly and plasters himself to the man’s side, administering the tightest hug that he can – which probably doesn’t even phase Geralt and his impressive muscles.

“Your culture is strange.” Geralt admits, causing Jaskier to laugh again.

“It is, isn’t it?”

* * *

That night, like many – if not all – nights before, Geralt sleeps at the foot of the bed. And while Jaskier wishes he could fit the massive beast on top of his sheets, he doesn’t think the rickety bed would hold their combined weight well.

He sleeps soundly, though, and he feels well rested in the morning as he watches Geralt and Vesemir glare at each other across the table while Mousesack whistles and makes them breakfast.

“You’re going to have a tough time getting to Yennefer,” Vesemir grinds out, fingers twitching on top of the table as if he’s preparing for a fight.

“I have a plan.” Geralt practically growls the words out.

“That’d be a first.” Vesemir scoffs and Jaskier is tempted to do something stupid like throw his steaming tea into the man’s face. Something must show on his face – or his scent – because the older wolf’s eyes are on him now, a sneer tugging at the scarred corner of the man’s mouth.

“Something to say, little lark?”

“Yes, actually-”

“ _Jaskier,”_ Geralt huffs, prompting a chuckle out of Mousesack as he brings them their eggs and bacon – a surprisingly normal breakfast for this wretched place, all he got at the castle was weird goop and porridges, salted ham if he was lucky.

“What? The man asked if I had something to say and you know I _always_ have something to say! As a matter of fact, I don’t _stop_ talking!” He switches to Polish because he knows they can’t understand him but they’ll surely understand the intention behind his tone. “ _And what I have to say is that if you continue being a fucking bastard towards my wolf, I’ll make your life a living hell for as long as I’m here. I am not above physical violence and maiming, you rotten old fuck.”_

“Huh,” Vesemir sits back, blinking at him owlishly.

“Little lark’s got talons,” Mousesack taps his fork against the plate contemplatively, and while Vesemir’s reaction was that of bewilderment, Jaskier gets the distinct feeling that Mousesack understood him perfectly.

“Hm,” Geralt hums, blissfully oblivious as he always is when Jaskier veers off of English.

“This is actually pretty good!” He beams at Mousesack as he takes the first bite of his eggs.

“This place must be quite the culture shock, no?” The bearded man smiles, much gentler today than he was last night, like perhaps he’s realized that he was being an asshole. Well, maybe the man has had a change of heart, but the old bastard wolf is still being as hostile as ever. He wonders if Geralt was like this before he got captured and met Ciri. He probably had been, seeing as he was practically raised by men like Vesemir.

“You’ve changed.” Vesemir grumbles as if reading Jaskier’s thoughts and he scoffs in Geralt’s stead.

“Yes, I’d imagine years of imprisonment change a man.” He keeps his tone light but he can’t force down the sharp undertones of his words.

“Vesemir,” Mousesack very pointedly kicks the man in the shin, reprimanding him as if he’s a dog to be scolded. “We talked about this.”

“Can’t I finish my food?” The older wolf grunts and the other’s glare intensifies.

“Not if you’re going to be like this, you can’t.” Mousesack pointedly drags Vesemir’s plate away from him and the old wolf whines.

“Right, um.” The man straightens up in his seat and Geralt tenses beside him. “I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry for abandoning my post, for letting you get captured and not doing anything about it. I thought that I could go back to being a teacher, thought that I’d be able to raise a new generation for a new guard but when Pavetta disbanded the royal entourage – I had nothing and no one left. She’d been convinced that we weren’t needed anymore and then there was nothing left for me to do at the court. So I left. I couldn’t go after you myself so I – I tried to forget.” The man takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I know I can make all of the excuses I want and it will never justify what I did. Even if I would have been captured or killed too, I still should have stayed by your side and fought.”

“Yes, you should have.” Geralt’s voice is firm and cold and Jaskier smacks him on the thigh.

“Geralt.” He feels like him and Mousesack are in similar positions at the moment – both with unruly wolves being emotionally constipated and dense by their sides.

The wolf glances at him before relaxing his posture. “I forgive you. And – I suppose it wasn’t always that bad. And I at least got to meet Ciri, got to help her when I could.”

“She’d been good for you,” Vesemir smiles, looking less drained than moments ago.

“She’s pack,” Geralt mutters, ducking his head and Jaskier realizes that this is the wolf basically admitting to adopting the feral little child. He beams at the wolf and squeezes his forearm proudly. It takes a big man to do what the two wolves just did, especially in a world like this and Jaskier feels like maybe things will be a bit better for them from now on.

“I’ll take you to Yen’s place today,” Mousesack says as he’s clearing away the plates, Vesemir helping him like this is something they do together often – it probably is, all things considered.

“I – ah. I’m coming with you. To help with Ciri. It’s about time I start making it up to you.” Vesemir holds firm in his words as Geralt grimaces.

“No,” The wolf shakes his head and – really, _this again_? He’s about to start protesting but Geralt, sensing his incoming complaints, places a hand on his thigh and _squeezes_. Jaskier’s heart rushes up into his throat at the strong grip and the endless possibilities, his mouth closes around a squeak as he decides to wisely not voice anything at all.

“No, I need you to go to Cintra. I need you to get Pavetta ready. If not her, then one of the council members, someone with an army. We’ll need a force to hide behind once we get her. If they have a powerful sorceress then they’ll be able to follow wherever we go and I need you to get men ready to intercept us near Cintra’s borders.” Geralt explains slowly and Jaskier tilts his head. This is the first he’s hearing about this but Geralt really must have thought this through if he’s already anticipating what will happen after they’ve succeeded in getting Ciri out of the king’s clutches.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Vesemir nods and then looks at Mousesack. “Think you can get in touch with Tissaia?”

Mousesack runs a hand over his beard and nods. “I should still have the xenovox somewhere.”

“Good. If they’re bringing an army, we might need something more than a couple of soldiers and guards.” Vesemir’s tone is grim and he looks at the two of them with determination in his yellow eyes. “We’ll be where you need us.”

“Thank you,” Geralt nods his head and Jaskier can tell that this is a huge relief. He himself certainly feels better about having back up if they’re going to do this. He doesn’t doubt Geralt’s skills and his ability to keep them alive, but if they’re going against a powerful sorceress and half the king’s army then a little help can’t hurt.

“Alright, now that that’s settled. Let’s go see if Yen is feeling charitable today!” Mousesack claps his hands together and Geralt winces at the loud nose.

“Let’s hope so,” The wolf mumbles timidly and Jaskier wonders who this Yennefer person is and what she’s like to elicit that sort of reaction out of the wolf.

* * *

The streets of the town are as crowded as ever and Jaskier clutches at the wolf’s shirt once again. It’s like Geralt is his safety net in this strange, new place filled with leering faces and questionable hygiene. He doesn’t take the time to absorb it all because if he does he might just start hyperventilating again. So he keeps his eyes down and follows Geralt and Mousesack through the narrow alleyways, across some sort of town square and to a gated building, separated from the rest of the town with a _mote._ A honest to God _mote_ – drawbridge and all. He wonders absently if there are any crocodiles in the murky waters. The building sits on top of a mound of land that has lush green hedges, its walls are tall and made from stone and it’s everything that Jaskier’s imagined it would be like living in one of the many Arthurian legends. Except this is no legend. This is all very real and Jaskier is soon standing in front of two scary-looking guards with swords and pikes at the ready.

“We need to see Yennefer,” Mousesack clears his throat. “It is urgent.”

“Do you have an appointment?” A fair-haired, mousey-looking woman steps out from behind the guards, her eyes large and very blue and her ears are very _pointy_. Jaskier almost does a double-take but holds himself back since it would probably be inappropriate and rude to gawk.

“Unfortunately, we do not. This is sort of a _last-minute_ occurence.” Mousesack winces as the woman tutts disapprovingly.

“Well, if you don’t have an appointment, then I’m afraid that I cannot help you. If you would _like_ to make an appointment, then you can do so with me.” She holds up a leather-bound journal and a quill, face expectant.

“When is the next available spot?” Mousesack asks and the woman flips through a couple of pages before finally settling on one.

“I can put you down for three weeks from now at sundown.” She looks up, quill poised and a patient look on her face as Geralt growls lowly in his throat.

“Tell her it’s – tell her Geralt needs her help. Please, we don’t have time to waste.” The wolf’s shoulders are slumped, his entire posture is pleading and Jaskier finds himself resenting this Yennefer woman a little already.

“ _Geralt_? Doesn’t ring a bell.” She skims the journal again and Geralt bristles at the obvious dismissal and Jaskier himself is getting a little antsy.

He’s about to protest, maybe try and charm his way into the walled-off property, when the large iron gates creak open and everyone present turns to stare as a girl comes running down from the castle-like building. She screeches as soon as she sees them and throws her arms around Geralt, climbing him like a tree. They stand there, stunned until Geralt lets out a heavy breath.

“Renfri??” The wolf’s voice is soft and he doesn't think he's ever heard the wolf sound so surprised. Jaskier watches, amazed and a little melt-y on the inside, as the man embraces the girl.

“Geralt,” She sniffles into his shoulder and Jaskier can see her hands digging into Geralt’s back as if she’s trying anchor herself into reality.

“Renfri, you’re not supposed to be away from her.” The blond woman eyes the hugging pair and Renfri drops down from where she was wrapped around Geralt like an octopus.

“Maya, please, Yen’ll survive without me for a couple of moments.” Renfri chuckles, one of her hands still latched onto Geralt’s forearm. “And for Melitele’s sake, let them pass. You know Yen will want to see them.”

“I don’t know that,” The blonde, Maya apparently, turns her nose up at them but then waves her hands at the guards. “Fine, open the gates. Tell Yen I’ve cancelled the rest of her appointments for today.”

“Nice,” Renfri beams at her and – really, she looks _so_ _young_ that Jaskier is baffled at how she knows Geralt. He should know better, though, Geralt is much older than he looks and surely, so is this Renfri girl. He knows this, yet he’s still somehow unable to wrap his head around it.

“Renfri, what- ?” Geralt’s confused puppy face makes an appearance and Jaskier nudges him forward.

“ _Gift horse_ , Geralt, come on.” He pushes at the wolf until he starts walking and they pass by the scary guards. Only once they’re over the drawbridge does he let go of the back of Geralt’s shirt. He feels like nobody will try and attack him here and if they do, surely Geralt would be able to save him.

“Do you happen to know who she is?” He asks Mousesack as the girl chatters about something that only Geralt is privy to since they’d fallen back and let the two take the lead.

“An old friend from school,” Mousesack grins. “I don’t think Geralt expected to see her ever again, he must be in shock. Maybe you should lend him a supportive hand?” The bearded man offers and Jaskier grimaces?

“What for?” He looks at Geralt’s tense shoulders and the constipated frown on his face. Huh.

“You know he’s not the best when it comes to dealing with sudden changes of emotional states.” Mousesack says wisely and really, why does everyone assume that Jaskier is Geralt’s emotional support human?

“It’s not like I’ve known him for _that_ long,” He grumbles as he hurries up to fall into step with Geralt. He slips his fingers around Geralt’s wrist like he is wont to do on occasion and Geralt rewards him with a gentle quirk of the mouth. The point of contact is apparently enough to ground Geralt and the constipated frown eases in its intensity. He flushes all over, though, from the knowledge that he’s able to have this sort of effect on the big, powerful wolf. It’s flattering to say the least. He doesn’t like how it fuels the flame building inside him, though. He’s not willing to hold any torches for anyone, least of all a good friend (that he might never see again after this).

They arrive at an ornate looking door that is pained a deep red and decorated gold. It’s very unlike Toddy’s castle and Jaskier is comforted by the fact that this isn’t just another cold castle filled with scuttling servants; even _if_ this house is more like a quaint villa than a regular house.

Renfri pushes the double doors open with flourish and there’s a short, startled intake of breath from somewhere further in the room.

“Geralt,” The voice is quiet but it still echoes through the mostly-empty office-like chamber.

“Yen,” Geralt nods his head and then a silence settles over them. It’s a silence that is very tense and awkward, and Jaskier tears himself away from the side of Geralt’s head to look at the sorceress in question.

He feels his own eyes widen as the woman stands up from behind the hardwood desk and starts approaching them. She’s beautiful. Her dark hair cascades gently over her tan shoulders that are bare due to the renaissance-fair-looking shirt she’s wearing that’s tucked into a corset. Her hands are purposefully clenched at her sides, making her entire form look like a coiled spring ready to bounce. Certainly, she’s otherworldly overall, but what is most striking are her eyes. They’re _violet._ They’re like two gems glinting in the sunlight that streams through the large windows as she – she’s _glaring._

She’s glaring and she’s rapidly approaching Geralt, one of her hands now outstretched menacingly.

Jaskier doesn’t even think once – let alone _twice_ – before he steps in front of the wolf. A spell comes loose from her hand, twinkling and crimson, and hits him square in the chest. He winces at the faint impact he feels and the shiver that follows, and pretends to dust himself off, looking down at his shirt to see if there’s any possible residue of _anything_ there. He wishes danger didn’t make him act so damn stupid but, at least here, nobody can pull a gun on him for defending a friend like they would back home.

Belatedly, he notices that the room has come to another standstill.

“Oh! Um.” He coughs faintly and opens his fool mouth, but instead of coming up with anything helpful to say, he lets it run because all coherent thought has left his head. _“Yennefer,_ I presume? Is that any way to greet an old friend? And a possible new friend, for that matter? Why, Geralt, I know I said that everyone wants to kill you around these parts but I was only kidding, you know? Really, you must be keeping secrets from me, mate, because, surely, these people aren’t trying to kill you just because your handsome visage offends them greatly!”

There’s a choked off laugh to the side and Jaskier looks over to see Renfri with both of her hands covering her mouth, eyes sparkling with tears.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” He clears his throat and does a half-arsed curtsy. “My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz but my friends call me Jaskier. You already know Geralt – _intimately_ if you’re willing to shoot on sight, and I’m assuming you know Mousesack. So, now that we’re all calm and collected again... Geralt – apologize to the nice lady.”

“What?!” Geralt turns to him, outrage in his tone.

“Yes, Geralt, apologize to the _nice lady._ ” Renfri, who seems to be enjoying herself, smacks the wolf on the shoulder.

“Why do you assume it is _my_ fault she is mad at me?” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest petulantly.

“Well, is it?”

“Well – yes, but.”

“There you go, then.” Jaskier chuckles. He’s still a little miffed about the attack but he chooses not to comment on it. Surely this woman that they all seem to trust so would not hurt Geralt? Either way. No harm done.

“ _Julian_ , you said.” Yennefer finally opens her mouth and Jaskier doesn’t necessarily like the purr in her tone. She approaches at a much slower pace now, her posture relaxed as opposed to a couple of moments ago. Jaskier doesn’t much like that either. 

“Jaskier,” He repeats, a challenge ringing clear in his tone. She’s certainly a _powerful sorceress_ and even without the unwarranted display of magic one can definitely see it in the way she holds herself – like a woman that knows she can do it all.

“I thought you said _Jaskier_ was reserved for friends,” She shoots right back, eyelashes batting innocently and Jaskier refuses to back down.

“Oh, let’s say I’m _hopeful._ ” His grin is sharp, serrated in a way that he knows makes him look like his brother. Geralt rumbles lowly behind him as Yennefer trails a finger down his chest.

“Peculiar,” She mumbles, tilting her head to the side like all of the magic people so far did the moment they got close enough to him.

“I’ve been called worse.” He quips and she lets out a snort, the first real crack in her demeanor and it seems to set the room at ease all at once.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you three showed up; it was beginning to look like a dull day.” She waves a hand and a door on to their right opens. “Come, I’ll have lunch prepared while we talk.”

“That was _stupid,”_ Geralt growls into his ear as Renfri latches onto his hand.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” She smiles brightly, “I want to know more about you, you seem positively _intriguing.”_

“Likewise, my lady, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He winks at her and she looks away, startled and probably unused to his type of personality. Everyone here is so brutish and broody that he has yet to meet anyone remotely like himself and it seems to set people on edge. Nobody knows what to think of him, how to deal with his displays of charm and easy comraderie.

Well, maybe that’s a plus. Maybe that can be their hidden strategy. Maybe his power is talking and confusing people to death. He’s fairly certain that if he gave it a go, he would be able to do it even.

They get seated around a large oval table with three fruit bowls decorating the length of it. He’s put in a chair between Renfri and Geralt and opposite to Yennefer and Mousesack. The two of them exchange a quiet greeting and Jaskier gets the feeling that they haven’t seen each other in quite a while despite living in the same city.

“Geralt,” He nudges the wolf, nodding in Yennefer’s direction as to indicate that he should start the conversation. The wolf looks at him with a blank expression on his face and Jaskier wishes he could flick him on the ear.

“Geralt.” He tries again, kicking the wolf in the leg and this time Geralt’s mouth tugs down at the corners.

“Fine,” The wolf grunts and straightens up in his high-backed chair. “Yen,” The wolf tries and then flails for words as her eyes turn to him.

He sighs inwardly and repeats his earlier action of laying his fingers onto Geralt’s wrist where his hand is clutching at the armrest. He rubs his thumb over the man’s knuckles in, what he hopes is, a comforting manner.

“Yen,” The wolf tries again. “I’d like to apologize. I know we parted on – not the best of terms,” The wolf winces, “And that I should have taken your feelings into consideration. So I am sorry for hurting you and – and going off and getting captured.”

The sorceress eyes him warily for a couple of moments before her eyes flit over to Jaskier like she’s accusing _him_ of somehow changing Geralt and making him someone he’s not. Because from what he’s gathered so far, and from what he understands, Geralt is a very different person to whom he used to be before his time in captivity.

“Yes, well, you could hardly help the last bit.” She drums her nails against the tabletop. “I’m – also sorry. I didn’t take it well and I – I should have gone to fight with you.”

“No – it’s not. It wasn’t your duty, Pavetta had her own sorceress and you’d been relieved of your duties. You didn’t owe it to anyone to join the fight.” Geralt shakes his head a little with a sad smile and Jaskier squeezes his hand in a show of support.

“Ah, I suppose you’re right. Still, I shouldn’t have blamed you for doing your duty and for that I am sorry.” She nods her head, signalling that _that_ particular conversation thread has come to an end.

He hears a faint _what the fuck_ come from Renfri and holds back a chuckle. This must be quite the shock and Jaskier will gladly take responsibility for the first mature conversation to have happened between them all today.

“Right, alright.” Geralt tips forward a little, the fishtail braid that Jaskier had bestowed upon him that morning slipping over his shoulder and forward. “We came here for a reason. And – we need your help.”

“What is this about, Geralt. You know I can’t-” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“It’s about Ciri.” Geralt mutters; he’s still beating himself up over her capture, Jaskier concludes privately. “As you’ve probably noticed, I got out. The both of us did but it wasn’t enough. They captured us again and brought Jaskier here from – from the other world.”

“Shit,” Yennefer winces, leaning back in her chair, fingers steepled in front of her face as she listens to Geralt tell their tale. He watches as her face goes through an array of emotions during the whole ordeal. She’s obviously livid by the end of it, her hands clenched and posture tense all over again. And Jaskier can’t blame her. He’s pretty fucking pissed off himself as he hears the king’s plan being repeated in Geralt’s sombre tone even though he already knew what it was.

“Fringilla.” Yennefer finally says after a couple of moments of silence. “She’s the only one still willing to dabble in dark chaos magic. He must have found her where she was hiding, the wretched thing.” The sorceress sneers meanly and Jaskier knows there are years of animosity there just from that look alone.

“It’ll take her a while but she might be able to find a spell that would let the king control Cirilla. If the right conditions are met, anything is possible.” Yennefer admits reluctantly and Geralt’s chair creaks as his grip on the armrest tightens.

“We need to stop her.” Geralt grinds out, eyes intent and furious.

“I can’t get involved. If I get involved, Geralt, this whole place goes to shit. The whole point of this is to keep it _not involved._ ” She seems pained by her own words and Jaskier understands her all too well. Trying to remain impartial when faced with such decisions and choices is difficult to say the least.

“We just need you to open up the Zmayevac portal. It’s been closed for decades but it’s the closest one to Vahr. We don’t have time to travel that far on foot or horseback.” Geralt pleads with his eyes and Jaskier knows how hard it is for people to say no to _the look_.

“What are you planning to do?” Yennefer asks dubiously, leaning forward to listen as Geralt relays his grand plan.

“I’ve been to the Vahr keep before. I know the place inside out; I know the passageways and the catacombs beneath it. He’s brought half his army with him, confident he’ll be able to start his attacks as soon as they have control over Ciri’s powers so we cannot go in head first. We’re going to take one of the cave entrances in and sneak Ciri out through there.” Geralt elaborates and Jaskier feels a little uneasy knowing he’s included in the ‘ _we’_ Geralt is speaking of.

“That’s not really detailed enough, Geralt.” Yennefer frowns.

“I don’t know how many guards there will be in the halls nor where she is being kept. I can only speculate. And hope for the best. But I can’t let her stay there; I have to get her home. I’ll do anything to get her home.” The wolf’s tone is full of sorrow and Jaskier _hates_ seeing him look this defeated.

“They’ll come after you.” She warns and Geralt nods.

“Vesemir is going to try and contact Tissaia and try and talk some sense into Pavetta. We’re expecting a small force backing us up, at least until we get into safer territories, until we reach Cintra.” Geralt sighs, still looking very much like someone who has already given up.

He notices how Renfri tenses up at the mention of Vesemir and is somewhat curious if she was there that day of the final battle, if she feels betrayed by the older wolf as Geralt did.

“There are only two portals you can open from Vahr. The one to Sodden and the one to Kaer Trolde. Kaer Trolde has been shut off from any portals for years now, ever since the war started. So that leaves Sodden Hill. So you go to Sodden and then what? Fringilla will easily follow you.”

“That’s why the attack force will be waiting for her at Sodden. This is the future of the kingdoms we’re talking about, Yen, Pavetta has to listen. Even she is not so deluded as to think that the peace we have now will last.” And really, Geralt couldn’t be sounding any sadder than he does now if he were crying.

Jaskier wants to gather him up into his arms and maybe kiss his forehead, make him some soup and French toast so that he won’t look as despondent as he does now. 

“I’ve not seen Queen Pavetta since the battle of Belhaven, but certainly these years have changed her.” Mousesack hums, “The loss of a child is a heavy burden on a parent’s shoulders and a spark of hope will spur her into action, I’m sure. We must trust in Vesemir’s ability to convince her to spare some men while Tissaia gathers the willing sorcerers and sorceresses. No doubt many of them will gladly sign up for an opportunity to have a go at the king.”

“They’ll be outnumbered and outmatched.” Yennefer grumbles, looking towards the door to the left as servants start bringing in a small feast.

“They don’t have to fight an entire war; they just need to hold them off long enough for Ciri to open up the Sodden seal that’ll get us to Vizima. From there we can get to Cintra.”

He can see that Geralt is trying his best to sound optimistic and like he has it all covered but Jaskier can see beneath the mask – it’s not a feat by any means; everyone at the table is able to see the cracks and what’s underneath them. They can all see the pain and the feeble hope that Mousesack has just spoken of – and really, Geralt _did_ sort of adopt Ciri (and maybe Jaskier did a little, too). He hasn’t spent nearly as much time with her as Geralt has and he’s willing to risk his life to save her. The little Dove practically grew up with Geralt watching over her and being her only friend, it’s not a wonder that Geralt is going into this guns-blazing.

“Looks like you have the _after_ bit worked out so now it’s only the actual rescuing you need to plan.” Renfri throws in her two cents and Geralt nods, eyes intent and staring at the roasted turkey that’s sitting in front of him.

“You said _we_ ,” Yennefer asks as she spoons mashed potatoes onto her plate.

“Yes, Jaskier and I.”

Yennefer drops the spoon. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” Geralt’s eyes finally lift from the meat.

“You’re not taking a human into a fight like that!” The sorceress yells and Jaskier feels oddly touched that this woman he’s just met is worried about him.

“He’s actually more skilled than he looks,” Geralt points out and –

“Hey!” He pouts, kicking the wolf in the back of the leg, causing him to wince.

“He’s not from here, Yen, magic can’t hurt him.” Geralt explains like Yennefer is a toddler and even _he_ finds the condescending tone insulting.

“I know _that_ , you useless brute! He can still get stabbed, he still feels the pain! As someone who’s gotten stabbed before, you should know that it isn’t exactly _fun!”_ She hisses angrily and, well, she has a point.

“We don’t have time to escort him to Cintra first, Yen. I don’t – I know he can get hurt, alright. I fucking _know!”_ The wolf slams a hand onto the table, surprising everyone into silence. “I know. But I trust him to be careful and we’ve been practicing and he’s good with a sword and even better with daggers. We’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to him.” Geralt looks at him then, eyes serious and fierce again. “I won’t.” And it’s – well. It’s certainly a _promise._ And the strangest thing is that, Jaskier _believes_ him.

He nods at the wolf and flicks him on the nose briefly before looking back to Yennefer. “We’ll be fine. Now, let’s eat before this gets cold. No offense, Mousesack, to you and your fish soup but I need meat in my diet otherwise I will wilt like the delicate flower that I am.”

“You are a _weed_.” Mousesack snorts and Jaskier just grins in return.

* * *

After their meal, Yennefer whisks Geralt off to try and get more information about Ciri’s powers out of him and Jaskier is left alone at the mercy of Renfri – because Mousesack has also somehow made himself scarce in a matter of seconds.

“So,” She leans against the armrest, eyes large and earnest. “How much has he told you?”

“About what?” He looks at her warily – something in her smug tone not sitting well with him. It feels fake; it feels like she might burst out in anger at the any given moment – she feels unsettled and feral in that way that Ciri did for the first couple of days before she acclimated. Maybe that’s just the people here, though, and Jaskier is reading into things too much.

“Oh, you know, _wolf_ things.” She grins and Jaskier _definitely_ doesn’t like that.

“I know enough,” He tries, not willing to let her spill the beans if there is something that Geralt is keeping from him. He doesn’t like hearing things that concern him second-hand.

“I don't think you do, though. Surely you must be wondering why he-”

“I'm going to stop you right there,” He holds up a hand. “If there is something Geralt needs to tell me or wishes to tell me, then he will do so on his own time. And I will not accept any information you’re offering right now, ‘right?” His tone is light but serious, he’s still aware that this _is_ another wolf he’s talking to and despite her being Geralt’s friend, there’s nothing explicitly stopping her from hurting Jaskier.

“Hmpf,” Renfri turns away, looking more than a little incensed. “What is it in him that inspires such blind loyalty from people?”

“Well, he saved my life multiple times, for one.” He hums grasping at the goblet of wine that had been set in front of him.

“Yes, he does do that quite often, doesn’t he?” She chuckles but her tone is weak this time, voice smoothing out at the frizzled edges. “He saved mine, too. During the last battle. I suppose I'm the reason he’d been captured in the first place.”

“He told me about that but he didn’t mention you.” He says honestly, wanting to see if she’ll speak up about it, if he can get her to open up like he did with Geralt.

“He thought I was dead. He’s always been this big figure in everyone’s sights, larger than life and gruff and mean but always well-meaning in his boorish ways.” She smiles, gentle and reserved enough that Jaskier feels like he’s intruding. “He’d been a big brother to us pups back in school; we were the last generation that Vesemir trained before it all fell apart.”

“Let me guess, he acted recklessly and defended you when you said you could take care of yourself?” He briefly grazes her shoulder with his hand in a gesture of comfort and she nods.

“He was too worried about us pups; it was our first proper battle.” She drops her head, her short locks obscuring her face. “People were dying left and right and the king’s army – they have these big crossbows that shoot spears at horses and anything bigger than a person, really. It happened fast, one moment I was biting a soldier’s arm off and the next there was a tip of a spear lodged in my gut – stopped from going through only by Geralt’s own bulk. I passed out from blood loss because the tip nicked something it shouldn’t have and Geralt got dragged away because he refused to stop fighting even with half his innards on the outside.”

“That sounds like something he’d do.” He nods, grimacing to himself at the vivid picture her words paint. He hopes that Geralt doesn’t try and sacrifice himself for his sake anytime soon, he doesn’t think he’d be able to live with the guilt.

“I didn’t know he was alive, still. I would have gone after him.” She grips the edges of the table harshly, grinding out a growl of frustration.

“I think it was perhaps better that you didn’t know. Otherwise you would have gotten yourself captured as well. I know you mean well and that you would have wanted to make it up to him but Geralt is here now, and that’s what matters, yeah?” He nudges her ankle with his foot and she tilts her head his way, hazel eyes curious.

“You’re quite something, you know that?”

“Oh, I am but a humble human trapped in this strange land, there’s nothing special about me in the slightest.” He chuckles, leaning back in the, frankly uncomfortable, chair.

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Renfri hums, “Otherwise Geralt wouldn’t have attached himself to you like a newborn pup.”

He blushes. He can’t help it. The thought of Geralt finding him fascinating and worthy of his attention is flattering and pleasant despite the rational part of his brain saying that this is all a very bad idea. “He’s probably just grateful that I took care of Ciri when she showed up on my doorstep. I’m fond of the both of them, they’ve helped me out quite a bit back home. I was in a – ah, not the best situation when the storm swept them in.”

“I see that you have your own tragic tale to tell.” She stands up then, pushing the chair away. “Come on, I know a spot.”

He glances at the door where Geralt and Yen are probably _catching up_ and then sighs, following after Renfri as she enters the kitchen.

She leads him out of the building and down a flight of stairs that opens up to a garden. It’s beautiful. It’s got plants the likes of which Jaskier has never seen before in all of the colours of the spectrum and it seems like the whole place is stuck in perpetual spring even if it is technically the end of august back home. There are exotic bird calls filling the air and a gentle breeze swaying the foliage. Renfri leads them under a big willow tree and then sits him down. She disappears momentarily from sight and when she returns it’s in the form of a big, brown wolf.

“Hello there,” He smiles, holding out a hand for her to butt her forehead against. “You’re a fair bit smaller than Geralt, aren’t you? That makes sense, I suppose. He’s a very large man, as well.” The wolf huffs and lays its head onto his lap. He feels honoured. He knows this is some sort of wolf-y pack acceptance thing that’s happening right now and he’s happy that Renfri has taken enough of a liking to him to allow him the pleasure of her wolf-y company.

“Gorgeous creatures, you are.” He croons, “Very epic and magnificent. I may have to compose a song to honour your likeness when I get back home. Something to remember this place by.” He chuckles as she wiggles her tail at his words. “I know you must think me silly for being so optimistic but I can’t let myself be anything else. If I’m getting through this it’s by willing a happy ending into existence. And I – I trust Geralt, I trust him to have my back.”

Renfri whines and shuffles further, nudging her nose into his stomach and eliciting a giggle out of him at the sensation of warm air rushing through the material of his shirt.

“Are all of you this cuddly or are the two of you making an exception for me?” He asks, running his fingers through the thick scruff under the wolf’s chin. She blinks up at him and he can’t help but feel like she’s mocking him slightly. “Special?” He asks again and the wolf head moves up and down a little. He grins, “Knew it.”

He looks up when the bushes start rustling again and watches as Geralt’s massive wolf form emerges between the colourful flowers. He smiles and holds out his free hand as the wolf trudges closer to them. Geralt takes up the position on the opposite side to Renfri, under Jaskier’s left arm and lays his head on his left thigh, nose gently nudging Renfri’s forehead. He notices that she has a smattering of white fur on forehead and down her left side. He wonders if this is due to some wolf-y magics or if it’s her natural coat patterning. He’d like to think it’s because Geralt had sacrificed himself for her at one point but that’s just the romantic in him speaking.

“You paint quite the picture,” Yennefer walks down the path slowly, trailing her hands over flowers and making them bloom somehow even brighter.

“A sight for sore eyes, I hope.” He responds, watching, enthralled by the shifting of colours on some of the flowers.

“After years in this shithole, of course.” She snorts then drops down onto the ground in front of him, reaching over to run her fingers over Renfri’s fur. “She’s not usually this comfortable with strangers. Quite the opposite, actually. But – I suppose the circumstances are different in this case.” The sorceress smiles, lips painted red stretching attractively.

“I’d like to think I’m a trustworthy person.” He tips his head back against the tree bark and closes his eyes, enjoying the juxtaposition of the cool breeze and the warm fur sensations.

“Seeing as you’re not of this world, yes, I’d say so.” 

“I don’t know about that. There are plenty of bad people where I come from as well.” He cracks open an eye to watch Geralt’s wolf head lift in displeasure. “Though, we’re a little lighter on the whole _imprisoning people and making them slaves_ bit. In some countries only, though.” He pats Geralt’s head and the wolf settles back down again.

The sorceress laugh, “From what Geralt’s told me, you’ve had every opportunity to turn into a bad man yourself.”

“I reckon I’ve always been a bit or a rebel. Going against expectations is my specialty.” He finds himself relaxing in the comfortable atmosphere, possibly carefree fully for the first time since he got here. 

“That was very foolish what you did earlier. Foolish but brave.” Yennefer clears her throat. “I just – I wanted you to know that I am glad he has someone to look after him. He always takes care of everyone and then allows no one to care for him. So I’m glad you’re willing to take a spell to the chest for him – even if it was only a minor concussive blast that would have put you on your arse if you weren’t protected.”

“Well, good to know that you weren’t _actually_ going to hurt him and I – it seemed like the right thing to do. If I have this gift then I might as well use it.” He flinches as Geralt’s teeth nip at his wrist in protest. “Yes, yes. I know. I’m not a meat shield.” He flicks the other’s ear like he wanted to do earlier. “But that doesn’t mean that I won’t step into the line of fire if I know it can protect you and won’t do anything to me. So you’ll just have to deal with that, dummy.” To his right, Renfri huffs out what Jaskier’s come to recognize as a wolf-equivalent to a laugh and he finds that he is pleased yet again.

“Good, someone needed to knock some sense in to him. He’d never have listened to me – before. He never did, the idiot. Though, I suppose I can see how he would think it rude of me to judge him for his actions when we are very much alike in these regards.” The sorceress smiles down at the two wolves and Jaskier feels a pang in his chest at the thought of the two of them patching things up now that Geralt is free again and a changed wolfman. Well, he supposes that would be for the best. At least this way, he would know that he wouldn’t be leaving Geralt alone upon his return.

So he decides to encourage her. “He’s different now, though. It’s been years since then and being Ciri’s guardian – from what I’ve gathered, he’s _very_ different now to what he was like before.”

“Still self-sacrificing at his core, though.” She points out and Jaskier nods.

“Well, a man can only change so much.” He feels weird talking about Geralt like he’s not here but it’s easy to dissociate from the fact that the wolf cuddling up to him is the man that he’s been in close quarters with for quite some time now.

“Yes, he _is_ different now. He’s very different to what he was. But I’d say it’s for the better. He’s certainly more tolerable when he’s not growling in irritation and communicating solely in grunts the entire time.” She grins sharply as the wolf tries to smack her with his tail ineffectively.

“He’s a right _sweetheart,_ isn’t he?” He coos loudly, bending down and squishing one of the wolf’s cheeks while making a smooching face. Geralt whines and flicks out his tongue at him in warning and Jaskier dodges in the last moment – _no, thank you_.

“He’s domesticated, that’s for sure.” Yennefer comments and earns herself a growl from Geralt and an amused pseudo-bark from Renfri.

“Leave him be, it’s about time he retired. He’s an old man practically.” He says sagely and Geralt heaves his massive form around to give him the cold shoulder. “Aw, darling, don’t be like that. You know I like older men!” He gripes unthinkingly and splutters when Geralt turns to look at him in outrage – eyes yellow and intent.

Yennefer laughs then, a crystal clear sound and Jaskier finds himself with a feeling of fondness in his chest all over again. _These are good people_ , he thinks. _These are Geralt’s people, I can trust them._

* * *

“Hey, how come your and Vesemir’s eyes are yellow and Renfri’s are hazel?” He asks idly as he stirs the pot of _whatever_ it is that Mousesack is making while Geralt chops up some weird-looking plants. He guesses the concoction in the cauldron isn’t anything particularly edible.

“Renfri was cursed. I was born a wolf. She was very young when she was cursed so you’d never guess with how effortlessly the shift for her is but, yes. She’d - she had wanted a way to get revenge on those who'd wronged her and the sorceress she’d gone to gave her just that.” Geralt explains, tone somewhat sad but there’s still a small smile on his face. “I was the one that found her wandering the woods. Took her to the school and begged Vesemir to let her train with us even if it wasn’t customary for cursed wolves to join the guard.”

“Wow, that’s intense.” He hums, leaning away as the concoction starts bubbling. “Mousesack! Something’s happening, mate!” He calls and the man comes rushing from around the corner as the liquid turns from putrid yellow to purple.

“Ah, excellent, it is almost done.” The man takes over stirring duties from him and Jaskier watches, fascinated as the potion begins to congeal in the cauldron.

“What is it?” He shuffles back behind Geralt just in case something bad is about to happen.

“An explosive of sort. You coat arrowheads in it, letting it harden. After it is fired, the hardened shell heats with speed. Upon impact, when it’s heated, it explodes violently.” He elaborates and Jaskier winces at the thought of somehow setting the whole thing on fire accidentally.

“Do you need help coating the arrowheads?” Geralt asks and Mousesack shakes his head.

“No, no. It’s alright. You two get some rest, you’ll need it. Renfri will be over in the morning with your supplies so you better not sleep in.” The bearded man smiles at them and Jaskier tugs Geralt away from the kitchen that’s somehow become an alchemist’s lab.

He herds Geralt up the stairs and into their room. He briefly wishes he had drawn a bath but washing can wait for when Ciri’s life is not in danger and the fate of the kingdoms doesn’t rest on their shoulders.

Sighing, he shucks the pants that Yennefer had provided him with and drops Geralt’s shirt. He tugs on his flannel sleepwear instead and crawls under the scratchy blankets. He expects Geralt to shift and find a spot at the foot of the bed but the wolf doesn’t do that. No. Instead, Geralt takes off most of his clothing and gets into bed right behind him.

He squeaks. It’s an undignified sound but what else is he supposed to do when a strong arm pulls him back into the wolf’s chest and a cold nose nudges under his ear. He’s reminded, briefly, of his panic attack in the forest and he can’t help but feel like Geralt is picking up on his panic now as well. There’s no other explanation why the wolf would be doing this. That has to be it.

So he actively works on relaxing himself into the other’s hold and prays to every God and Goddess out there that he doesn’t wake up with morning wood or anything else as embarrassing.

“Thank you,” The wolf mumbles and Jaskier almost turns around before remembering that Geralt is mostly naked behind him and that _that_ would probably be inappropriate. Not that there’s anything _apropriate_ about this situation in the first place.

“For what, darling?” He can’t help but ask.

“For doing this with me. For saying nice things about me. For taking care of Ciri, all of it. Every single thing you’ve done since I’ve met you has been kind and _good._ And it’s meant a lot more to me than you probably realize.” The wolf grumbles, tightening his hold on Jaskier momentarily before relaxing again.

“Told you once already, Geralt, you’ve gotta start meeting better people.” He chuckles weakly and Geralt snorts.

“Think I’ve already met the best person.”

Jaskier swallows heavily, ignoring the thudding of his heart. “Sleep, wolfboy, tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Night, Jaskier.”

“Good night, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always my thoughts on the chapter:  
> I've blended some of the Witcher canon with my own little bits and plotlines and backstories because that's just a fun way to make canon better  
> But also like i just love adding characters into the vat so that's probably why we're gonna be seeing another extra chapter!! I love Yen!!!!  
> (fancasted timothee chalamet as prince todd in case anyone's wondering)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took too long because i didnt wanna write the smut but i knew i had to but then yeah. i mean, i did it but i just kept writing it sentence by sentence for like a week. oop, my bad lmao  
> anyway. here's the ending!! Hope y'all enjoy and as always, mind the tags

“And _this_ is for when you’re cold and it’s raining. And this one is for when it’s too warm out, but you’re pale so you need to shield yourself from the sun anyway. And this one is for-”

“Renfri, love, I’m not going on vacation, I can’t take all of these jackets with me.” He chuckles as the younger wolf’s wide eyes turn wider at his refusal of the clothing pile that she’s pushing onto him.

“But you’ll catch your death in the mountains!” She whines and he pats her on the shoulder.

“I’m sure I can leech warmth off of Geralt if push comes to shove. I’m certain it won’t be cold enough for that, though.” He reassures her, looking out the window to see that the wind has begun picking up as if it is trying to prove him wrong.

It had been warm so far. Then again, he _had_ woken up with his nose buried in the hollow of Geralt’s throat and that sensation has been stoking the flame inside him for a couple of hours now so maybe it wasn’t as warm out as he originally thought and it was just _him_.

“Leave him alone, Ren.” Geralt grunts as he closes the clasp on a strap that stretches across his chest – the strap that is holding two very impressive swords against his broad back.

“I just want him to be prepared!” Renfri hisses at Geralt and the wolf swats her away as she tries to poke him in the ribs.

“He’ll be fine.” Geralt looks over and scans his outfit critically.

They’re both decked out in leather and thick materials that are dark in colour and easy to move in. Somehow, it looks like a uniform on Geralt and like an unfortunate theatre costume on Jaskier. He feels silly in the peasant-style black shirt and the high-waisted leather trousers. However, he feels slightly less silly when Geralt hands him a shortsword and a dagger to tuck into the sheaths on his hips, and a knife to put into the sheath on the thigh strap. The sword is lightly curved and intricately decorated with what one back home might call Celtic designs and knots. It’s beautiful and Jaskier’s only slightly afraid of it. He thinks he might just use the dagger and knife instead; those are familiar weights in his palms, they’re something he knows. The only downside is that he has to get up close and personal with whomever he’s – well, trying to _end._ Though, he’s never taken a life before and he’ll see to it that it remains so if he can help it.

He hasn’t notified Geralt of this yet, of course, but he hopes that the wolf isn’t expecting him to do anything of the sort. He hopes Geralt knows him well enough by now to know that he won't take a life willingly. 

“Julian,” Geralt calls, voice suddenly too loud and spearing through the thoughts clouding his head.

He startles, looking up at the wolf that seems to be looming over him again, blocking out the rest of the armory in Yen’s castle. For someone in charge of a _peaceful_ town, she sure does have a lot of weapons for _just in case._

“Hm?” He asks lightly and it only serves to make Geralt look more worried so he tries his best to ground himself back in the present. No use in letting his thoughts drift like that, now especially.

“You – you’re alright, yes?” The wolf places a gentle hand onto the side of his neck, warm and solid, an anchor. It’s a similar gesture in spirit to his own fingers wrapping around Geralt’s wrist. He appreciates it even if it doesn’t really help the _other_ issue he’s having – the one with the _unwarranted_ _affections_.

“Yeah, yes. Good. Can’t be bad now, right? I’m not backing down and I’m not giving up. We’re gonna be fine, lads, we’re fuckin’ aces.” He shakes his arms out, dislodging Geralt’s hand in the process. He can do this. He _can_ help and he _will_ help. For Ciri and for Geralt.

“Somehow I don’t think he’s _fine_ ,” Renfri whispers and Jaskier elects to ignore her for the time being as he hoists his bag up and over his shoulder.

“All set, boys?” Yennefer wrinkles her nose as Geralt grunts in reply. The closer they get to their mission, the less verbal the wolf is. Jaskier can’t blame him – not everyone can spare brain cells on holding pointless conversations like he can, he's practically an expert.

“Aye, aye, m’am.” He salutes her and she shakes her head at his antics. “Awaiting your command.”

“Right, then.” She waves towards the door. “Down we go, into the basement.”

“The basement?” He tilts his head, mind briefly flashing to all of the horror movies he’s ever seen.

“Can’t exactly use the public portal now, can we?” She chuckles. “This is a delicate matter and it requires a bit of discretion. Even knowing I’m helping you do this could upset the peace.”

“This place was declared the neutral zone because of the war, right?” He traces his fingers along the smooth, warm walls as they walk down a corridor.

“Yes. It was somewhere people who were prosecuted on both sides, but wanted nothing to do with the war, could settle. A safe haven, guarded by strong magics and accessible only through certain portals by certain people.” Yennefer looks properly smug at that and there is no doubt that she had played a big part in securing the city.

There’s only one problem, though.

“So – if there was no war, there would be no need for this place?” He asks, causing her to falter. “I mean, this place is a safe haven for war refugees, essentially. But if there was no war, they would be free to go home if they wanted to, yes?”

“I suppose,” She looks away from him as if sensing where he’s going with this particular conversation thread.

They pass through a door and start going down some nicely-lit stone steps. “So, if the war stops, any and every city will become a safe haven because there would be nothing to run from.” He hums. “I sure hope there’s a way to end the war, then.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt mutters darkly and he shrugs at the wolf. He’s right and they all know it. Yennefer’s pacifism is understandable, all things considered, but really, if she could help aid the armies in their fight then – well, maybe she should be out there fighting with the rest of them instead. Especially since the king is planning a new attack on the kingdom of Cintra and soon, too. She should, by all means, be going with them and helping them get Ciri back.

“You don’t know what I’ve already given to this war, _human_.” She sneers and he hears Geralt growl from behind him.

“You’re right, I don’t. I just hope that _you_ know that you’re not the _only one_ that has.” He straightens up, emboldened by his invincibility and Geralt’s large form at his back. “Ciri alone gave her childhood to it, Geralt gave his freedom, Renfri almost gave her life. I know you’ve suffered but so have many, _many_ others - on both sides. Most were not as lucky as you to find sanctuary in this place.”

Yennefer’s eyes spark with indignant fury and her hands glow in the dim light of the cavernous basement. She’s riled up and dangerous and Jaskier hopes that Geralt doesn’t try to protect him from the onslaught of magic he is sure is going to follow but – but somehow doesn’t.

Instead, Yennefer lets out a short scream and directs the magic at the circle of rocks on the floor, lighting it up blue. “Piss off, human.” She grunts and angrily stomps up the stone steps, away from him and his big fucking mouth.

“Well, that was delightful.” He snorts and turns to Renfri who is looking rather miffed at the moment.

“She’s just mad she can’t hurt you,” She concludes and Jaskier nods, accepting the ready-made excuse easily. “Nobody’s ever dared to speak about it to her but we – we all know that this place has a time limit. Sooner or later, this won’t be a neutral zone anymore, and instead it’ll belong to whichever side wins.”

“It will go to ruin unless we save Ciri and get her back to Cintra.” Jaskier adds, nodding solemnly, and Geralt grunts.

“And we kill the king.”

“And we _what?”_ He spins on his heels so fast he almost gets dizzy, staring wide-eyed at the wolf in surprise.

“Yes,” Geralt nods slowly. “You’re right. This impending second war needs to be stopped, we have to nip it in the bud. The only way we’ll be able to do that is by eliminating the king. The rightful heir to the throne is Thaddeus and nobody takes that boy seriously, nobody trusts him to lead a kingdom of that size. So it will fall into Pavetta's - as Duny’s child’s mother - hands and she’ll dissolve Nilfgaard’s territories and return them back to their original rulers.”

“Geralt, that’s-” He swallows the rest of his sentence because Geralt is right. The only way to stop the war is to cut down the source of the animosity.

“The king’s council is made up of conquered rulers and they all hate him. They would have gotten rid of him already, too, but. But the king is protected by magics nobody can get through. It’s – several attempts have been made but there was nobody that could do it. Even the sorceress that had done the spells failed and was promptly executed.” The older wolf speaks as Renfri circles around the portal and comes back to stand next to him.

“What Geralt is trying to tell you, I think, is that – well, Jaskier, my friend.” She looks uneasy as she breaks off the at the end of the sentence, eyes shifting from him to Geralt and back. “Is that – _you’ll_ have to be the one to do it.”

“I _what?!”_ He shrieks. “When was this decided? Why haven’t you told me any of this? Considering I’m pretty fucking involved, I think I should have known about it!”

“Just now,” Geralt says simply and Jaskier balks again.

“NOW?” He feels faint, he feels like he’s going to _pass the fuck out_. “I should have kept my damn mouth shut! This is what Valentin was always talking about, isn’t it?! One day my fucking mouth is going to get me murdered and this is how it happens! During an attempted assassination on a king of a land I have no ties to whatsoever!” He grips his hair in frustration as tears sting his eyes.

“Jaskier, you know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t our last hope.” Geralt’s hands cup his face. “I know this _is_ asking a lot of you, far more than you owe us. But – if you had the power to end the war, would you? Will you?”

This is – this is _huge._ It’s _monumental._ It’s asking Jaskier, a simple human, a singer-songwriter, a son of a European mob boss, to potentially save a world; to save an entire continent because he’s the only one that can. And well – he’d be a proper hypocrite if he said no, wouldn’t he? What with all the preaching he’d just done to Yennefer, he would be a colossal fucking asshole if he chose to sit back and stay out of it when he’s the only one that can help.

“I’ll do it.” He blurts out and both wolves pause. “I know. I’m the only one that can. I’ll do it.”

“You – well.” Renfri clears her throat. “I guess I’ll see you two when I see you, then.” She rushes in between the two of them to hug him and he barely has time to squeeze her back before she’s giving Geralt a hug too and scampering up the stairs after Yennefer. He thinks he sees her shoulders shaking with silent tears but he’s not sure.

“Alright,” He claps his hands together, “Let’s do this.”

“Jaskier, I-” Geralt chokes down words and Jaskier shakes his head to stop him from uttering them.

“Save the heart-to-heart for after, love. I swear I’ll still be around to listen.” He grasps the other’s wrists and lowers the wolf’s hands from his face. “Come on, let’s go get our kid back.”

* * *

“How did the war start?” He asks as they step out of the half-demolished portal in a town that’s mostly ruins and overgrown grass.

“I told you; the king wanted more power.” Geralt grunts, whacking his big hunting knife through some vines to clear the path.

He shivers; it’s definitely a little chillier here than it was in the safe haven. “No, I know about that part but. The humans chasing out the elves, committing fuckin’ _genocide_ against them. What’s up with that?” He hisses, feeling his stomach roil in disgust just thinking about it.

“The humans came here ages ago,” Geralt starts in a low rumble. “In the beginning, it was only the elves. Then the humans, they came from _your_ world.”

“What? How?” He falters a little in his steps, watching as Geralt’s shoulders hitch up with irritation.

“One of the elven sorcerers fought with one of the kings over the rights to the throne. To get revenge, he opened up a portal between the worlds. He slowly educated the humans about magic and our world, bringing them over group by group. The humans brought armies with them and eventually overtook the king’s land. They continued coming until the elven sorcerer, having realized what he’d done, closed the portal. But it was too late by then” Geralt sighs and turns to look at him. “That was the beginning, Jaskier, your people started the war.”

“Oh, absolutely, that definitely sounds like something they’d do.” He admits grimly, clenching his hands at his sides.

“They didn’t actively try and slaughter the elves but the elves wouldn’t leave their lands quietly. And, well, after that the elven genes were either bred out of families or were banished towards the more elf-friendly lands.” Geralt’s gaze is grim and serious and Jaskier gulps, feeling a little guilty even though he had absolutely nothing to do with any of that.

“Well, I suppose it would only be fitting, if I were the one to end the war, then.” He smiles weakly and Geralt gives him a long, stern stare that seems to almost pierce Jaskier – or at least that’s what it feels like, like a knife through the chest.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s gaze softens, a hand reaching out to run through Jaskier’s messy hair. “I was not implying it is your fault, little lark.”

He swallows heavily, heartbeat picking up considerably at the gentleness of the action and the words _and the fact that Geralt understood why he’d been silently upset._ "I know, darling, I know.”

Geralt remains silent for a couple of more moments before he continues hacking away at the too-tall grass and the vines descending from above.

“Who’s the queen, then?” He thinks back to Todd and his castle and his court of fools that seem very put-upon. “Who’s Todderick’s mother?”

“An elven queen from one of the overtaken kingdoms.” Geralt grunts, “She died giving birth to Thaddeus.”

“Was she a sorceress? Is that how it works?” He huffs as a bird flies above his head, loudly crowing in protest because they’re upsetting the nature there.

“No, it is not hereditary.” Geralt hums, “The ones who can do magic truly are known as the _Sources._ Magic is chaos incarnate, if a child is known to be able to harness it, it is sent to a school so that it can learn to control it. Otherwise they are at risk of going mad.”

“That’s grim,” He looks down at his own hands and wonders if he would have been one of those individuals if he were born here, in this world. It would certainly be an inconvenience. 

“The schooling is rigorous, long, and many don’t make it through till the end.” Geralt adds and Jaskier winces. He’d definitely be better off being regular.

“That’s even grimmer.”

This process of fighting their way through the thicket continues for about an hour and a half if Jaskier’s estimates are correct and then they’re emerging riverside. Suddenly, Jaskier finds the sound of water far too loud.

“We go upstream,” Geralt points left with his knife. “The river leads to a small lake where it dips underground and under the mountains.”

“Cool,” He eyes the emerald water warily as he follows Geralt’s lead. “What are your plans for when we get to where Ciri is being kept?”

“Hope for the best?” Geralt shoots him a grin and Jaskier chokes a little on his next inhale.

“Hilarious, really.” He shudders, thinking about just how _likely_ it is that Geralt has no plan at all.

“Once we get into the keep, I'll need to scent the place and try and locate Ciri. It is likely that we’ll have to observe the keep for a while before we even get to go in.” Geralt shakes his head in annoyance and Jaskier can imagine why – the wolf really doesn’t seem like the waiting type.

“Surveillance, right, okay.” He nods, he can do that. That should be easy enough, right?

“Nothing will happen to you, Jaskier, I promise.” Geralt sounds determined enough but, well, you never know, _right_?

* * *

“Absolutely not.” He crosses his arms over his chest as Geralt hauls the newly-acquired deer carcass in his mouth towards the large body of water. The wolf gives him a mean look and starts the shift back.

“It’s magic, Jaskier, you’ll be fine.” The now-human still has blood all over his naked front and doesn’t seem to be bothered by it much.

Jaskier wishes it didn’t make for an attractive sight but – _well_.

“Yes, exactly! It’s magic, which means it won’t work on me and I'll _drown_ and then _die!”_ He’s very close to stomping his foot against the ground but – what else is he supposed to do when a magical wolf tells you you’re going to have to walk on water because the cave you need to get to is apparently inaccessible from anywhere else.

“Hm,” Geralt looked out and over the inky blackness of the unnaturally-still water. The river flow slowed down a while back and the place where it meets the lake looks frozen in time – it's quite beautiful but Jaskier can’t really care when he is being asked to pull a Jesus and _walk on water._

“Perhaps you are right.” Geralt tugs the carcass up and, in an impressive display of strength, throws it into the water. The thing hits the surface with a wet splat and then doesn’t sink even an inch – almost as if it had landed onto concrete or ice. Then – the water starts bubbling and gurgling and thick, black tendrils rise up from the water to drag the deer under and all Jaskier can do is splutter in shock.

“What the actual fuck, mate?!” He cries out, looking at Geralt accusingly and with an increasing sense of dread settling into the pit of his stomach.

“An offering to the lake spirit, for safe passage. We should not be disturbed now.” The wolf nods, satisfied, as he pulls his clothes back on. “Come, I'll carry you.”

“Ugh, I hate this.” He did not, in fact, hate this. What he hated was how good it felt to be carried around in Geralt’s big arms and how comfortably warm the wolf was. He hates the feeling of being dependent on someone, even if that someone was a hunky wolfman. _Especially_ if that someone was a hunky wolfman.

He holds his arms out obediently and Geralt scoops him up like he weighs nothing. He hurriedly wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist and the wolf shifts him to the side so that he’s resting on the wolf’s hip like a damn _toddler._

“This is beneath me – if the lads back home could see, I'd never fuckin’ live it down.” He whines, feeling his cheeks heat as the wolf jostles him into a firmer hold.

“You have friends back home?” Geralt intones and – oh, my god! Geralt’s just cracked a joke!

“My, my, Geralt. When did you get so _funny_?” He bares his teeth at the wolf and Geralt retaliates playfully by doing the same – except, Geralt’s canines are much sharper than his and it’s honestly kind-of hot. Christ, he truly _is_ depraved!

“And, anyway, yeah I have friends. Well, a few of them, I guess. Not a lot of people are willing to risk being associated with me.” He shrugs, looking down into the opaque water below Geralt’s booted feet.

“Why?” The wolf tilts his head to the side and Jaskier sighs. Cute.

“Well, they’re always either scared of my shady background or they don’t want to be exposed to the spotlight – the fame. And then there are the ones that just want to take advantage of it, of course. So there’s really only a few people back home, in London, that I trust.” He taps his fingers along the wolf’s shoulders in an abstract rhythm.

“That is – unfortunate. And you chose this life?” Geralt asks again and Jaskier realizes that the wolf is making small talk to keep his mind off the water below but it’s not exactly working. He appreciates the efforts, though, so he keeps answering.

“Yeah. I mean – it's tough but... I needed to get away from what I was, from what they were trying to make me, so becoming known was how I chose to – rebel, I guess.” He lays his head onto the other’s shoulder and lets himself relax a little.

“I - one of my neighbours, Alessia, she’s one of my best friends. She was with me and my other friend, Ryan, when – well. I hope she’s not too worried.” He grips the other’s shoulders a bit tighter than before at the memory.

“Jaskier - what happened? Why were you at the manor if it is not your home?” The wolf asks gently and, considering what they’ve already shared with each other background-wise, he supposes that he owes it to the wolf.

“I just wanted to have a night out. I don’t - I don’t go out often and with people I don’t know even less but – my manager introduced me to these people and said I should mingle or whatever. And then they brought friends who brought friends and they wanted to go to the part of town that – well, wasn’t really the best.” He recalls the club perfectly, so much clearer than most of anything else that’s happened that night.

“We got drunk, they took me to another bar – er, tavern – that was even worse. Some people in there recognized me as the Count’s son and since I didn’t have any security with me, decided it would be a good idea to kidnap me and hold me for ransom. Um – keep me until my family pays them for my release.” He huffs, feeling the icy slide of terror running down his back. “They - well, I'm not certain they would have paid but, whatever.”

“That’s -” Geralt clears his throat and Jaskier feels the vibrations of it. He chuckles because _yeah._

“I know. But I wasn’t going to let them take me without a fight so, um, I started a fight in the club and dipped. I ran out to the car but I was, unfortunately, still sloshed.” He leans back to look at Geralt’s profile as the wolf scowls. “The only thing I could do was steal a car and attract as much attention while they chased me through town so that they’d be forced to retreat. Then I crashed the car.”

“You -” Geralt starts and Jaskier pats his cheek.

“I was fine, nothing but a few bruises. But father wasn’t thrilled. Flew out the cavalry to London to collect me and to keep the news about me almost being kidnapped on the down-low. it was all very hush-hush. Flew me back to the Old Country and locked me up like a damsel.” He wonders if Geralt will understand the Disney reference.

“That - was it permanent?” The wolf nudges his cheek with his nose and Jaskier scratches at the base of his skull.

“It’s supposed to be until things calm down but – after all of this, I don’t know if I'm going to be able to return to being famous. I – it's not the same anymore.” He tangles his fingers into the other’s soft hair and Geralt’s voice rumbles pleasantly.

“Prepared for a quiet life, then?” Geralt’s arms tighten around him and Jaskier wiggles happily in place.

“Perhaps; never thought I'd retire at such a young age.” He glances behind him and sees that they’re approaching the little alcove in the mountainside. It’s noticeably colder here but he’s being kept warm by Geralt’s body heat – and he mourns the loss of it already.

“Age matters very little here,” Geralt huffs quietly and Jaskier wonders what exactly _that_ is supposed to mean. “Alright to walk?”

“Yup, lemme down.” He wiggles free as Geralt steps onto solid ground again. He was very comfortable but if he remains cuddled up to Geralt then he’ll get _too_ comfortable and that won’t do anyone any good.

“Maybe I'll write a novel about all of this when I get back. Make some money off of that.” He stretches his legs, bending at the hip to make his spine pop. Geralt makes an unidentified noise behind him and he nods. “Yeah, that’s a bit too on the nose, huh?” He grins and winks in Geralt’s direction. He looks up at the mountain and the birds nesting in the crevices of the rocky cliffside.

“We should – uh, the cave is over there.” Geralt announces grumpily and stomps away to the right.

“Huh,” He wonders what the sudden attitude change is about. It's probably due to how close they’re getting. Right, time to get serious.

The cave they enter is damp and dank and everything you’d expect a cave to be. It’s not exactly Jaskier's favourite spot he’s been to - and that includes prince Toddy’s dungeon. He winces away from a dripping stalagmite with a grimace.

“Have to say, not my idea of a good first date.” He chuckles uneasily as his voice echoes and a bat flies past them. He tugs at the strings holding his shirt closed at the sternum nervously. He curses himself for his words briefly but he knows that Geralt can’t possibly understand the concept of dating and what his words entail - which is a little sad, all things considered.

“Nothing in this world is easy and this quest to save Ciri will be no exception.” The wolf rumbles, his deep voice sounding a bit haunting due to the cavernous space that surrounds them.

“I expect nothing less, Geralt, worry not.” He chuckles uneasily, feeling the sweat that’s beaded at the nape of his slide down his back.

They lapse into silence and Jaskier takes in the chambers of the mountain’s innards again and is disappointed to find that nothing has changed since the last time he looked around. Huffing, he counts their steps and finds that two of his are one of Geralt’s lumbering strides. The action only amuses him briefly, though, and he’s back to feeling jittery and nervous and the cave is only getting darker. Geralt looks back at him in apology as Jaskier stumbles over a rock and bumps into his back.

“It’s not your fault, love, some of us are human.” He smiles and pats the other’s shoulder reassuringly and the wolf just grunts. Then, he finds himself picked up and put back on the wolf’s hip.

“Christ, this again?” He whines – more for propriety’s sake than anything else.

“Just until it is light enough.” Geralt reassures him and he nods, trusting the wolf to keep him secured in his hold.

Well, at least _now_ he’s going to be preoccupied with trying not to drift off as Geralt carries him through the complicated maze of tunnels lead by scent only.

It takes a while for the darkness to dissipate some, but when it does, Geralt still keeps him in his arms. And continues to do so until they reach the exit to the cave. Well – not exactly an exit, but a break in the rocky cliffside that overlooks the fortress where Ciri is being kept. 

Geralt quickly scans the horizon and all of the keeps with his keen eyes and nods to himself. Jaskier has gotten absolutely nothing out of his own glance but – _trust,_ right. He needs to trust Geralt.

“Geralt, what do your wolf eyes see?”

“Once we’re inside I should be able to approximate the number better but for now I can see at least four guards near where Ciri is. This, of course, doesn’t account for the King and the sorceress, Fringilla.” Geralt grumbles quietly and Jaskier looks back out over the castle for the last time before they enter the cave again. "Ciri's in the tallest keep."

“Do you think the witch has something in place to let her know when enemies are near?” He questions, not willing to believe that the king would be so sloppy with security.

Geralt pauses. “Possibly. If they think that someone knows where Ciri is being kept or if Thaddeus had notified them of our escape, it is very likely.”

“Toddy wouldn’t,” He concludes. “Too much of a chicken-shit to admit to daddy that he lost prisoners.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt agrees and then continues walking. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“Great,” He hides his face from the dark in the crook of the wolf’s neck.

“If they know, we’ll think of something else. I won’t make you go in if they’re up in arms. The element of surprise is all that we have at the moment.” The wolf’s big palm runs up his back in a comforting gesture and Jaskier appreciates the warmth.

“Yeah, alright.”

* * *

The catacombs underneath the fortress are just as damp and dank as the caves had been. He’s seriously not a fan and he’d certainly never thought about a career as a spelunker but here he is regardless.

The whole thing is a maze, honestly, and he’s amazed at the ease with which Geralt travels through the confusing corridors. It’s not as dark as the caves, though so he’s fine walking on his own. That doesn’t mean that he’s not still firmly clinging to Geralt’s back like a lost little toddler. It’s embarrassing, really. But, well, it’s either that or getting stabbed by the first guard that they come across so he’ll hold his tongue and follow instead of leading.

“These stairs lead up into the main building of the castle. I can’t hear anyone up there so I'm assuming that there were no security measure in place – but, that doesn’t mean you can relax yet.” The wolf looks at him seriously and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’m not a child, Geralt. I know what danger is. Stop worrying about me and get to the rescuing part of this quest.” He pushes the other up the first few stairs, relenting only when the wolf continues walking on his own.

It’s a tense sort of silence now that the easy part is over. It's a tense silence that they need if they’re to be sneaking around a heavily-guarded keep. It serves as a good reminder of what Jaskier isn’t supposed to be doing and that is _babbling._ And, oh, how he wants to babble. He wants to open his mouth and spew useless bullshit like he usually would, he wants to waffle until his throat is dry because he’s _nervous and_ he’s _terrified_.

The halls of the keep are somehow more devoid of life than the caves and the catacombs combined. Even though the walls are decorated sparsely, there is nothing in them to indicate that someone is living in the building. There are no fires lit in the sconces on the walls, there are no decorative vases or even dead flowers. It’s frankly unsettling and he feels the dread seep into his bones as they move silently down more halls than he can count.

“I don’t like this,” He hushes, trying to keep his eyes focused on his surroundings lest someone sneak up on them.

“Hm?” Geralt opens a door and motions for him to wait.

“It’s too quiet. They're either sure that nobody is coming or they know we’re here already. Either way, something’s up.” He whispers, lurking after Geralt’s large form.

“They can’t have known we’re coming, and even if they do, they don’t know you’re immune to magiks and spells. It’s alright, this keep is mostly deserted.” Geralt respond and Jaskier thinks that he’s really trying to sound patient and gentle but that he’s failing marginally on the _patient_ front. He can’t blame the wolf for it, really. He, himself, is getting annoyed at his own antics as well but it’s not like he can turn off the part of his brain that worries constantly.

They make it up a couple of more floors without any interruptions and come to where Ciri is supposedly being kept – like a princess in the tallest of towers, forbidden from ever leaving.

“While there was no spell preventing us from getting into the keep, there is probably one preventing entrance and preventing Ciri from getting out of the room she’s being kept in.” Geralt turns to him as they come up on the second to last door that’s keeping them away from Cirilla. “I can’t hear anything past this hall.”

“I need to be the one that goes in,” He concludes and Geralt nods.

“There are two guards in front of the next door, I can go as far as getting rid of them but then you’re on your own.” Geralt’s hands cup his face again and the wolf touches his nose to Jaskier’s forehead. It feels like a blessing of some sort and he steels himself.

“I can’t sense beyond the last door. Take your dagger out and be careful.” The wolf waits for him to comply and Jaskier clutches at the handle with all his might.

The door opens and before he can react, Geralt already has the two guards subdued – possibly dead – on the ground. He blinks away the dread and rushes down the hallway, sidestepping the bodies and Geralt’s long sword.

“Alright, you can do this.” He whispers to himself and straightens up, loosening his shoulders and preparing for the worst.

The door starts sparkling a faint green when he presses a palm against it. There is no lock on it, no knob either, just the sheen of magic that has no impact on Jaskier other than looking pretty and sparkly and making his eyes water a bit. Though, maybe that last one is from the nerves.

He pushes the door open a smidge and peers inside. The room is hexagonal in shape and there is a bed on the right of the door that is occupied. There’s also a guard snoozing on a chair on the left that Jaskier prays doesn’t wake up while he’s trying to get Ciri out of the room. He closes the door behind himself and every sound falls away. The silence is unnatural and he can’t hear Geralt’s steady breathing anymore. A chill runs down his spine as he creeps across the floors and towards the princess.

He winces as his eyes fall upon her frail form. She looks like she hasn’t been sleeping well and there’s a bruise on her cheek that looks relatively fresh. One of her hands is clutching at a dagger that is not one of the two decorated ones that she usually had with her back at the mansion. He wonders if they’d confiscated them and thinks that it’s very likely that they had done just that. He takes in shallow breath and places a gentle palm on her shoulder.

Immediately, she startles up with the grace of someone who’s been barely sleeping for more than two weeks and has the dagger under his throat. He reacts with muscle memory before he can stop himself from making rash movements and disarms her with the ease of the last two times and suddenly – he has two daggers in his hands and Ciri’s wide eyes staring at him.

“Little Dove,” He hushes and her eyes fill with tears as she flings herself at him.

“Julian,” The sound is muffled by the material of his shirt but he hears the heart wrenching tone of it anyway.

“I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.” He reassures, gripping her into a tight hug that lasts until the sleeping guard starts stirring. He releases her, then, worried that they’ll get made.

“We need to get out of here,” He looks around the room for anything to throw over Ciri’s form because she’s only in her nightgown and finds a red cloak hanging from a set of antlers on the wall. He throws it over her shoulders and she ties the strings around her neck to keep it in place.

“Jaskier, the room is spelled, I can’t leave.” She whispers regretfully.

“The door was made to be a gate of sort, right?” He can only assume that this is how the magic here works but when Ciri nods he knows he’s made the right deduction.

“Then, when the door is open, the barrier is broken?” He walks over to it carefully and pulls it open by a piece of loose wood. Her eyes widen as she spots Geralt looming in the hall.

“How?” She rushes towards him, hands fluttering over his front as if looking for some magical artefact that had to have helped him.

He hands her back the dagger he’d taken and smiles gently. “I’ll explain later.” He pushes her gently into Geralt’s awaiting arms and closes the door behind him.

Geralt is hugging Ciri just as hard as he had and he can’t blame the wolf; not when the only thing he wants to do is huddle the both of them close to his chest and maybe make them some proper food back in the mansion.

“They’re going to be coming for us,” Ciri tugs out of the wolf’s hold and looks at him with her fiercest gaze. “The moment we step out of the fortress, Fringilla will know.”

“We know,” Geralt nods, “Can you open the portal to Sodden Hill?” Ciri looks unsure for a moment before nodding. “Good, then we need to get to it.”

“It’s – all the way on the other side of the fortress, across the courtyard.” She looks behind her at the room they’d just left and Jaskier wonders if he’s missing something.

“Dove,” He croons, “What is it?”

“If I use my magic, she’ll know.” Ciri grips her wrist, the one covered in bandages and he wonders what exactly had they done to her while she was prisoner. He feels the anger inside him boil up slowly, rising bile into the back of his throat at the thought of anyone hurting her.

“We’ll have to act fast then,” He says, turning his eyes to Geralt. “You clear the path, I’ll cover you. We need to get to that portal.”

“Yes,” Geralt nods then places a kiss onto the top of the sprog’s head. “Stay behind me at all times.”

“No powers until we reach the portal, we need the head start.” He hugs her once again briefly before nudging her after the wolf.

It’s slow going but eventually they make it down from the keep and out into the courtyard. They’re hidden by the keep’s shadow for now but the moment they step out of it, the guards on the walls will be able to spot them if they just look down. So they better not give them any reason to look down. 

They stick close to the walls, trying to keep out of the line of sight but it’s _still_ slow progress and he can’t help but wish that they could just make a run for it. He was never the most patient. But – _but._ He’ll be patient this one time, for Ciri’s sake if not for his own safety.

They’re almost at the door to the building when a guard emerges from an archway in the wall that they’d just passed.

“Hey!” The guard barks out and Jaskier’s left with only the one option.

He turns around quickly, panic coursing through his veins as he slams his free palm over the man’s mouth and drives the dagger into the space between the protective metal covering the guard’s midsection. Blood rushes through the gaps in his fingers as it comes up and out the man’s mouth. He pushes the rapidly loosening body back into the dark archway and lets the man slide down the wall. His hands shake as he steps back. He – _well._

“Fuck,” He mutters to himself, blinking rapidly as he starts feeling dizzy.

“Jaskier,” Ciri tugs on his sleeve and he focuses on that point of contact to keep his wits about him.

 _We’ll acknowledge this later,_ he thinks faintly to himself and turns back to continue heading towards portal. Geralt eyes him with something akin to shock in his eyes but he ignores the look in order to open the door for them. He peers inside before allowing the wolf to enter first and ushering Ciri after him.

The inside of the building is identical to the keep they’d just escaped from to the point where Jaskier is scared, only for a moment, that they hadn’t left the building in the first place. But, instead of going up a staircase, Ciri takes them down a hallways and then down a set of rickety, wooden stairs. The wood creaks with their every step and Jaskier winces every time the sound echoes too loudly.

Instead of a circle of stones in the ground, this time there is are wooden boards covering something that looks like a very deep hole in the ground. He shudders at the thought of jumping in and breaking both of his legs. And bleeding out. Like that guard that he fucking _stabbed_ probably is.

A chill goes up his spine as Geralt starts tearing away at the floorboards. He can’t think about it – he can’t allow himself to spiral into blind panic, there’s simply no time for that. So instead, he focuses on the sound of alarm coming from the building above.

“We have to hurry,” Geralt pulls out the last board and the hole is fully revealed and – yup, they’re probably going to have to jump.

The door atop the staircase rattles and someone calls for a sorceress – they’re coming and fast.

“Quicker than we anticipated.” He mumbles, gently nudging Cirilla towards the portal opening. “Come on, love, the sooner we’re out of here the sooner we’ll have some actual fire power on our side.”

“What do you mean?” She holds out her hand towards the ring of white tiles that surround the hole. There’s a concentrated look on her face so he’s loathe to break her focus. Her hands, unlike Yennefer’s and Toddy’s, glow a faint white as the portal opens and blinding light rushes downwards, into the hole.

“One of Geralt’s old buddies went to Cintra, we’re being expected by some _very powerful_ magic-y people back in Sodden.” He finally says after the portal has already been open.

Ciri’s eyes are wide when she turns to him; they’re sparkling and filled with tears. “They’re there for me?”

“Oh, Ciri, darling.” His heart breaks all over again at the disbelief in her tone. “Of course they are, they’re there to help us and keep you safe, little Dove.” He tugs some of the pale blonde strands of hair behind her ear and she gives him a shaky smile.

“It’s just that – they’ve never come for me before so…” She trails off with a shrug.

“I’m sure they would have but the amount of politics…. Things are always more complicated than they appear.” He pets her soothingly and she closes her eyes at the gentle gesture. “But trust me when I say that they’re all there now, because we asked and because you deserve to be saved.”

“Thank you,” She looks up at him again. “You and Geralt have been through quite a lot since the last time I saw you, huh?”

He rubs the back of his head, “You have no idea.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime, when we’re not being hunted and all.” She pats his cheek like he’s the child and he chuckles, having missed the peculiar way in which she held herself more than thought he did. And he’d thought he missed her plenty already.

“Christ, kid, I’m sorry it took us this long.” He hugs her but then Geralt is there and his eyes are mean and serious again.

“We’re leaving.” Is all that the wolf says before both Jaskier and Ciri are being hoisted under the wolf’s arms. Geralt jumps into the pit and Jaskier lets the familiar sensation of weightlessness overcome his senses. 

The portal they come out of is in an attic this time. It’s an interesting change of pace. Or, well, it would be if the ceiling wasn’t so damned low.

“This is inconvenient.” He rubs at the bump forming on his head, feeling a little woozier from this portal than the other two he’d gone through.

The door for the attic bursts open and –

“Get away from the portal, now!” A voice shouts from the opened door and he feels himself being grabbed by Geralt again and tugged out of the way as the portal begins glowing red and shaking apart. It crumbles in on itself, disappearing in its entirety before his very eyes.

“Come on, quickly. That won’t hold them off for long.”

“Yen?!” He yelps because he’s finally seeing who had burst into the room. “What the fuck?”

“Less talking, more running down the stairs.” She tugs on his arm and he follows post haste, letting his legs do all the thinking for now as the four of them hurry down the tower they’re in. the stairs creak under their combined weight and Geralt has to reach out and steady Cirilla so that she doesn’t topple over her own two feet.

The stairwell gets dark before the light of the breaking dawn reaches his eyes. He shields them from the sudden change of lighting. Geralt nudges him forward when he stalls and he lets himself be herded towards an open courtyard and – really, do all of these castle-like structures look the same _everywhere_ in this stupid world?!

“Jaskier! Geralt!” An over-excited voice reaches him, followed by strong arms wrapping around his neck and he smiles. It’s only been a little over a day but Renfri’s acting like they haven’t seen each other in years.

“Glad you could make it,” He hugs her back as the sounds start filtering in properly. There are about thirty people milling around the courtyard preparing for battle.

“Well, couldn’t let Yen do anything stupid on her own now, could I?” Her grin is sharp and she latches on to Geralt next.

“How long do you think we have?” Vesemir arrives with a steady gait, armour similar to Geralt’s on his shoulders and two swords on his back. There’s a woman next to him whose posture is poised and dignified and Jaskier’s mildly afraid to meet her eye.

“Maybe twenty minutes, maybe less. The portal disappearing should keep her from triangulating the location for a new one. But they’ll be here within the hour, that’s for certain.” Yennefer sighs, turning finally to look at Ciri. “Hello, there, you must be the princess.”

“My apologies, but I don’t seem to know who you are.” Ciri’s eyes hold a touch of awe in them as she takes in the assortment of gathered sorcerers and sorceresses.

“I don’t suppose you would, no. You were only four the last time I saw you.” Yennefer kneels and holds out a canteen filled with water. “My name is Yennefer, former overseer of the neutral zone Dzakh’ovo, currently unemployed and standing up for what is right.” She looks at him pointedly as she says the last part and Jaskier puffs out his chest proudly, feeling a little dumb with gratitude and relief that he’d managed to get through to her. Boy, this is going to suck ass if they lose. 

“Nice to meet you, Yennefer.” Ciri bows a little and Yen’s smile melts into a fond expression. Everyone’s always so helplessly charmed by the little sprog that Jaskier feels better about his own mother hen instincts.

“Wish it was under better circumstances.” The sorceress nods and hands Ciri a bagel for her to munch on to get her strength up some.

“Cirilla,” Geralt starts slowly and Jaskier can hear how tense he is just from the tone of voice he’s using. “We’ll need you to freehand portal to Cintra.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer warns as Ciri stills.

“We don’t have time, Yen. We don’t have time to trek to the nearest gate and you just destroyed the portal here.” Geralt growls, looming over them in his anger.

“They would have already been here if I hadn’t!” She yells back, violet eyes sparking with unleashed power.

“Yennefer,” The unnamed woman lays a hand on her shoulder and Yen deflates. “You’ll show her how to open the portal, will you not?”

“Yes, Tissaia.” She grinds out through gritted teeth.

“Good.” The – if he remembers correctly – _head sorceress_ or _whatever_ turns to him and does the head-tilt thing. “You must be Jaskier.”

“That I am, madam.” He does a little curtsy and she smiles.

“Renfri and Yennefer notified me of a slight change in plans.” She eyes the two suspiciously and Jaskier nods.

“But this has no effect on the part of the plan where Ciri gets to Cintra as soon as possible and _safe_ at that.” He crosses his arms over his chest and then promptly winces when Ciri makes a wounded noise.

“What? What is the plan? You’re not coming with me?” She latches onto him with all of her strength. “You’re staying here where they’ll be fighting?!”

“Oh, love, don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you, I just have to stay here and watch over Geralt for a bit. You know he’s useless without me.” He tries to smile reassuringly but by the way Renfri winces in the background, he thinks it’s safe to say that he’s failed on that account.

“You’re lying,” She sniffles, her expressive and pale eyes glowing faintly in that unnatural, magical way.

“I am, yes.” He admits, hugging her closer. “But if I tell you what I’m staying for, then you’d make me leave. And I’m afraid that it is imperative for me to stay.”

“Promise you’ll come after me later?” He voice is frail and thin like he hasn’t heard it before.

“I’ll see you again, don’t worry.” He passes her off to Yennefer who is looking a little constipated – who’s got a _kind_ expression on her face.

“Come on, princess, I need to show you some texts that’ll make it easier.” The sorceress tugs the sprog away and Cirilla looks reluctant but complies with the silent gesture.

“Get some food in ya’,” Vesemir tips his head to the side where a table with baskets is set up and Jaskier thinks this is all very quaint despite the threat of the impending battle looming over them. “You’ll need the energy,” And in a true hurried fashion of someone who’s needed all over, he ambles away with a wave.

“I don’t think I can eat anything.” He admits as he gazes upon the selection of pastries and dried fruits and various nuts.

“Nerves? This must be your first battle, then.” A curly-haired woman, that’s sorting through the selection and keeping it orderly while people pick and choose from the spread, asks. Her ears, he notes, are pointed.

“Well, more like my first war but by far not my first battle.” He grins shakily and the sorceress chuckles.

“Triss,” Geralt nods in greeting and she raises an eyebrow at him, causing him to step back behind Jaskier a little. Well, _that’s_ certainly interesting.

“Do _all_ of the pretty sorceresses around these parts want you dead or?” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the wolf until his shoulders haunch in shame.

“Oh, I wouldn’t kill him – just maim him a little.” Triss grins and holds out a hand. Jaskier thinks she’s waiting for a handshake before remembering that they don’t do that here and then places a gentle kiss on the back of the hand instead.

“Jaskier, I presume? Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Any man that can get Yen to stop being a stubborn windbag is alright with me.” She winks and he feels his cheeks heat up at the flattering attention.

Everybody milling around seems entirely too casual about the incoming threat and he wonders how many wars _they’ve_ all been in. Seems like they’ve seen their fair share if they’re this relaxed. There are preparations being made, of course; walls are being fortified, projectiles are being stocked up on and Mousesack’s explosive arrows are being distributed. Everyone is tittering around the place, radiating nervous energy. And Jaskier is there, absorbing it all like a shitty little orange sponge. Triss eyes him for a moment before nodding and handing him a hot beverage.

“We’ll keep you safe, Jaskier.” She smiles and he can do nothing but nod.

“Thank you.” He chuckles and takes a step back until Geralt is pressed against him, a comforting presence. “I’m not asking you to promise _me_ anything just that – that you get Ciri to Cintra preferably in one piece. She – she takes priority any day.”

“ _Julian_ ,” Geralt grunts in distress and he huffs in amusement.

“I’ll be fine, Geralt.” He turns around to meet the wolf’s eyes and sucks in a sharp breath at the sheer amount of _worry_ in them. “Hey,” He reaches up and pats the wolf’s cheek. “We’re in this together, mate, yeah? No sense in worrying now.”

Geralt looks like he’s going to say something profound and intense but the sound of a horn pierces the steady murmur of the pre-battle atmosphere, causing everyone to erupt into an uproar of panic.

“Shit!” Triss yelps. “They’re here already!” Dropping her plate, she books it towards the wall – moving impressively fast for someone in heels and a dress.

“Showtime,” He sucks in some more air and joins the exodus of foot soldiers moving out of the courtyard before Geralt can do something stupid like try and stop him. Renfri joins his side shortly, though, and he smiles when she pats his back.

The clinking of armour merges with the sound of horses and weapons and – well, queen Pavetta certainly sent more than a singular squad. Sprawled all over the clearing in front of the fortress’ gates was a decently sized army – at least what Jaskier assumes is a decently sized army; it’s not like he’s ever seen one in real life before to have some point of reference for it. He keeps moving even though he wants to do nothing more than backtrack. He can’t stop either, there are as many people marching behind him as there are in front of him and there are… there are _portals_ _opening_ all over in front of him, some 500 meters away like it’s the _Avengers: Endgame_ final battle.

Both forces come to a halt and the king steps out of the line of his soldiers. He’s a tall man with dark hair cropped close to his head at the sides and peppered with grey; he stands ramrod-straight and proud in his dark armour, head held high and a golden crown decorating it. Next to him on the right is a dark-skinned woman with a mean look in her eyes and a dark robe covering her frame; looking for all intents and purposes like she’s ready to murder them all. On the king’s left is a lanky knight with a bow and a quiver on his back, he looks faintly ill but stands still as a statue – a possible problem.

“Emhyr, what an unpleasant not-surprise.” Tissaia takes a step out of the line-up and is quickly followed by a man he doesn’t recognize and Mousesack with his beard trimmed and hair slicked back – the man look like he actually put in the effort to look good for this wretched event.

“Give me back the child and we can pretend none of this ever happened.” The king bellows, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword in a threatening manner.

“That would be a waste of preparations,” Mousesack calls back, his grin visible even back from where Jaskier is standing – way, _way_ back where he’s standing.

“You are not going to win this. _Lives_ will be wasted. You can prevent this, if you just hand over the girl.” The king asks again and really, the way that the king speaks is as graceful as the man’s aging figure. But – Jaskier isn’t fooled. The angry tilt to his impressive eyebrows is a dead giveaway that he is about to snap like a twig if someone denies him again what he thinks is his.

“He’s quite the charmer, huh?” He asks Geralt as the wolf shoulders his way into standing next to him.

“ _Filthy warmonger_ ,” Renfri spits on the ground and Jaskier winces as the glob of snot lands near his foot.

“Never mind,” He moulds himself to Geralt’s side as the wind picks up, it’s a chilly morning filled with fog and animosity.

“We’re not giving you anything, Emhyr. This war ends today.” Tissaia’s voice is like cold steel, powerful and solid, unyeilding.

“So be it.” Emhyr raises an arm and when he lowers it, another war horn sounds and the battle cries of both sides as soldiers rush each other fill the air.

“We need to get closer to the king!” Geralt shouts and pushes him behind his bulk. “Stay near and get your sword out.”

It’s frantic, trying to get through an active battlefield. It’s loud and chaotic, there’s blood spraying everywhere and arrows trying to find their next victim hurtling through the air. He feels the adrenaline inside him mixing with the fear and terror of what his eyes are seeing. Death everywhere, screams of anguish and pain all around him. It shakes him to his core but he can’t stop now. Geralt is tearing through the enemy forces with a single-mined purpose, followed closely by Renfri that weaves between the soldiers with an unnatural amount of grace, slashing and slicing. And Jaskier – all that he can do is hold his sword in his hand and hope that no-one tries to attack him outright.

He sidesteps a sword being swung in his direction and winces as it imbeds itself in another man’s leg.

“Sorry!” He yells over his shoulder as Geralt tugs him back into a steady jog. His muscles ache as he keeps moving but there is no time to stop. There are people dying all around him and he can’t even stop to process of he’ll break down. He feels it building inside of his chest but there is simply _no time_. There always seems to _not be enough time_ and it’s such a switch-up from where he was before, in the mansion, with time to waste, that it’s giving him a headache just thinking about it.

Someone manages to tackle Geralt to the ground and Renfri rushes to help the wolf out. This, unfortunately, leaves Jaskier open and standing between two enemies that are brandishing swords at him as balls of fire soar through the sky like meteors. An arrow hits the man to his right, imbedding itself in the man’s chest and then promptly exploding the soldier’s upper half. Jaskier and his other opponent both scream in horror at the gore. He stands stock-still and gags as the enemy runs away in the other direction. His knees shake as he drags his eyes away from the gruesome sight and focuses on his primary mission. He still has to kill the king.

Another solider comes flying his way, a yell bellowing out of his mouth and Jaskier blocks his sword swing with his own weapon easily. The man seems tired and Jaskier isn’t keen on stabbing anyone else so he pushes the man back, advancing with short and powerful strikes like Geralt had shown him until the man trips over a corpse and falls back on his arse. He knocks the butt of his sword onto the man’s helmet, disorienting him as he gets away.

He’s lost sight of Geralt at this point and he realizes that not many of the soldiers on _their side_ have made it this far into the opposing side’s territory. He’s only one of the dozen or so others that are engaged in duels scattered about this far in. With the corner of his eye he sees Triss and Tissaia, along with another sorceress he doesn’t know, surrounding Fringilla. The woman seems frantic as she realizes that she’s being outnumbered and Jaskier knows then, in his gut, that there’s _something_ coming.

An arrow buzzes past him, sent off by the knight standing still at the king’s side. It hits a man behind him and the king’s right hand man seems puzzled as to how the arrow had missed Jaskier in his entirety.

 _Magic-enhanced arrows,_ he thinks as relief rushes through him. He would have certainly been a goner were it not for his weird _immunity_ thing. He hears his next attacker coming before he sees him so he’s able to throw himself to the side as the man tries to swing at him. He recovers quickly, wincing as pain laces through his battered sides. He trades blows with the sweaty man who’s already bleeding sluggishly from a wound on his head. He kicks out as the man rears back for another clumsy, two-handed swing and catches the man’s knee, sending him toppling. He’s exhausted, he doesn’t know if he can reach the king but he keeps going. His opponent, seemingly, doesn’t have the same mentality and remains defeated on the ground.

He looks up and meets the dark eyes of the man of the hour and he _swears_ the king knows exactly what is coming. Because the man sheds his useless cloak and unsheathes his sword, ready to join the fight and heading straight towards Jaskier with obvious intent. Jaskier is panting but the king’s gait is strong and relaxed, like he’s taking a leisurely stroll through a garden rather than a bloodbath. Jaskier hates him on sight. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you two had escaped my son’s watch.” The king’s mouth flattens out into a disapproving line and Jaskier scoffs.

“I can’t say that _Toddy_ presented much of an obstacle, no.” He bares his teeth at the king, putting his sword back in its sheath and pulling out the twin daggers – this needs to be a fight up close and personal.

The king’s frown deepens, his eyebrows lowering in distaste. “That is not that surprising either.”

“You know, maybe if you treated your kid better, you’d incentivise him to try harder and _be better_.” God, there goes his stupid fucking mouth again. “Really, I mean. I know I’m no child psychologist and that behavioural psychology hasn’t been invented here yet, but like, the positive-negative feedback thing? Totally works. Maybe you can even pull a _Pavlov Dog_ on him and train him to, like, respond smarter to certain sounds or whatever-”

“That is _enough.”_ The king barks, “I know not what you speak of, _foreigner_ , but I will have no word of it any longer!”

“Whoa, that’s a little right-wing of you, mate.” He chuckles uneasily, trying to cover up the fear that’s made a home for itself in his gut. _Now or never, Jules,_ his brother’s voice rings inside his mind and he’s violently thrown back to when they were ten and practicing _stabbing_. His brother had had height on him back then, was three years older, too but Jaskier had still been deluded into thinking that what they were doing was _right_ and Valentin wasn’t even remotely ready for the fury of his younger brother. He remembers how it felt to sink his knife into his brother’s arm and how the older boy had howled in pain. He remembers thinking then that he’d never want to do that again to _anyone_. And yet here he is now, tasked with killing a king. He’s going to have to do a lot more than _stab_ if he is to defeat the king.

“Hey, quick question,” He raises his daggers in a battle stance. “What happens when other, bigger invading forces come for your sorry arse? You _do_ know that your precious Continent is, like, a speck in the grand scale of things. Things might be different here, but yonder mountains there’s whole other civilizations out there.” He grins as the king’s eye twitches in irritation.

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s warning growl reaches him and he feels a sense of calm wash over him at the irritation and exasperation in the wolf’s voice.

“What? I was just asking!” He centres himself as the king eyes him warily.

“No one is making it over the mountains, boy.” The king raises his sword and Jaskier has a spare second to exhale a laugh and a ‘ _that’s what they said about the Alps’_ before the king is hurtling towards him with a powerful strike. 

“Fuck!” He shouts as the force of the strike that he’s just blocked travels down his arms and makes his spine tingle. He may be immune to magic but he’s certainly not immune to brute force. He recovers quickly, though, the enhanced healing aspect of the whole shebang helping him along.

Blow after blow, all he can do is block. He tries to look for an opening but the king’s guard is seemingly always up. He’s sweating profusely and it’s dripping down the side of his face, making his shirt stick to his back. His arms struggle under the force of the blows and his thighs burn from the strain. He is most definitely not in shape for this.

“You might as well quit now, boy, there is no winning for you.” The king grins savagely, his teeth stained red from the elbow Jaskier had managed to land.

“We’ll see about that.” He hisses, rolling his shoulders and preparing for another round of attacks.

“Very well, then.” The king straightens up, runs a hand through his hair and waves an arm towards where Fringilla is still, somehow, fighting off the sorceresses trying to detain her.

She looks over to them and nods at the king. And then – in a flash of light and a gust of thick smoke, she’s gone. Triss screams something and Tissaia envelops them in a protective shield of some sort as the black smoke begins spreading across the battlefield but it’s no use, the shield doesn’t hold against the dark magiks involved.

Jaskier watches as Cintra’s forces start dropping like flies, being choked by the thick fog. It enters their lungs and the tides turn so fast that his heart starts hurting. Geralt growls as he goes down somewhere behind him and there’s a piercing scream that makes the blood in his veins freeze. He turns around slowly, afraid of what he’ll find.

Sure enough, a little red blot is running down the hill from the keep rapidly. Moving through the smoke that is slowly killing their soldiers.

“NO!” Geralt screams back and Jaskier sees the crackling of energy around Ciri before everything goes to shit.

He throws himself at the wolf to stop him from rushing towards the panicked child and Geralt struggles as Cirilla continues running towards him. The wolf is weak, he trembles in Jaskier’s arms as the smoke climbs his body and starts dragging him under.

“No, no, no, _no.”_ He whispers frantically as the wolf’s eyes cloud over.

“Finish – it.” The wolf chokes out and Jaskier’s scream is accompanied by the one that Cirilla releases once she’s close enough to see what’s going on.

Her scream doesn’t stop when Jaskier’s does, though. No, she continues screaming and the screaming only grows louder and higher in frequency. The air around her ripples increasingly and the win picks up until Jaskier is barely standing on his two feet. She’s not supposed to be here – she was supposed to be in Cintra already, she was supposed to-

“Cirilla!” The king shouts, “Stop this foolishness and come home!”

And that, well, _that_ was the wrong thing to say.

Cirilla’s eyes flash pure white and she spreads her arms, the red cloak she’s wearing rippling around her. Her mouth is open but there’s no sound coming out of it now. People, objects, enemies start floating in her vicinity and Jaskier clings to Geralt’s form, trying to stop him from floating up with the rest. The king stands still, protected, but the black smoke lifts a well, lingering in the air and trying to reform.

Cirilla’s mouth snaps shut and the moment her teeth clack together, a shockwave sends all of the floating weaponry and soldiers flying. The wave spreads, clearing the smoke completely and knocking all of the king’s soldiers off their feat in one fell swoop. The shockwave leaves trees uprooted, ground overturned, cracked and scorched but the king remains standing, protected by magiks. But so does Jaskier.

The moment that the king starts heading towards Cirilla, Julian acts. He grabs his discarded daggers and rushes at the king. He tackles the man and feels the piercing pain lace through his abdomen only for a moment before he’s screaming and stabbing both of the daggers into the man’s chest.

“Fuck you!!” He wails, tearing his throat raw as the king stares up at him in horror.

He pulls one of the daggers out, a trail of blood following the motion in an arc, and stabs it through the other’s neck. He watches, impassively, as blood gushes out of the open wounds, dirtying his hands, staining them red.

“H-how?” The king gurgles, choking on his own blood as it seeps out of his mouth.

“Di–diplomatic immunity.” He chuckles and then cough, splattering blood down onto the king’s face. _Oh, no._

“Jaskier!” Cirilla shrieks and he stands up automatically, only then is he made aware that he’s been impaled because he slips free of the blade. His hands clutch at the wound where the king’s sword had run him through that’s bleeding steadily.

“No! No, Jaskier!” Cirilla meets him halfway to where Geralt is slowly coming to, eyes wide and filled with fear.

“It’s over, princess, you – you can go home now.” He smiles, dropping down to his knees as she cups his hands with her own. Her eyes glow again but nothing happens.

“I – I can’t heal you, the magic – it’s not responding.” She babbles, tears streaming down her face as he feels the cold seeping into his bones, one terrifying wave after another. This is it, this is how he dies. This is what his life had been leading to, death in a fantasy land at the hands of an evil king. He – he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret anything and he knows this now. He feels bad about being mean to Nate and about his relationship with his brother but he doesn’t regret it. He'd change it if he could, though.

“This is the end of the road for me, little Dove.” He grins shakily as the edges of his vision grow darker, thankfully, there is no pain.

“Jaskier,” Geralt croaks, sounding wrecked, wraps an arm around his middle to keep him steady. “Jaskier, you…”

“I did what I had to, love. Don’t – don’t worry about me.” He coughs again, feeling weaker by the second. “It’s been a pleasure fighting with you both. I’m – I’m glad I met you.” He cups Geralt’s cheek and kisses Cirilla’s forehead for the last time. 

“Jaskier, no!!” Ciri screams and Jaskier’s world goes dark again.

* * *

He gasps, springing up with a sharp inhale that sends him into a coughing fit. His eyes are clamped shut and his heart is beating wildly in his chest. He can’t – he can’t open his eyes, his limbs are paralyzed. Noise is buzzing inside his head and his body is pulsating where he sits.

He tries to calm himself down, he counts backwards from a hundred by sevens until he can feel the fabric underneath his hands. It’s soft but worn, _familiar_.

He opens his eyes and sobs. He – he’s back in the mansion. He’s in his own bed, staring out the dirty window into the forest behind the house. He’s faintly aware that he’s crying, that there are tears streaming down his face.

Was it all a dream?

He looks down at his hands and, for a second, he sees blood. But it’s gone as soon as he blinks. There’s a hollow ache in his chest that distracts him from the thought that he might have just been stabbed through with a sword. That he might have just _died._ Worse yet, that it might have all been a dream.

Getting up on shaky legs, he goes to the next room and finds no proof that Ciri had ever stayed there. None of the dresses she wore, none of the shirts she’d cut up to fit her, there’s nothing in the closet and the bed is stripped bare. The noise of TV static in his mind grows louder until it crests and then falls silent.

There’s a ringing coming from downstairs and he pads over to the staircase, barefoot and in his flannels like nothing’s wrong. The clocks on the walls say that it’s 4 a.m. and he scrubs a hand over his face, frowning at the stubble gathered on his jaw.

He finds his phone dropped under the ugly divan in the sitting room and frowns at the incoming call.

“Nate?” He clears his throat when he finds himself parched and moves towards the kitchen.

“ _Oh thank God! What the hell, Julian? I’ve been trying to reach you for three days!”_ Nate’s voice comes through loud and clear and Jaskier winces at the tone. _Three days?_

“Shit, sorry, I lost my phone. It was in the, um, greenhouse. I was having a smoke out there just now and finally heard it.” He lies because he can’t explain the three-day absence. There’s no possible way that he’s been gone for three days only – it had been _weeks_. Because, _surely_ , this means that he _had_ been gone and that his time with Ciri and Geralt _(God, Geralt!)_ had been real. That it hadn’t been a dream or an elaborate, sleep-deprivation induced coma. _He hopes._

 _“Jesus, Julian,”_ Nate breathes out heavily. _“Valentin refused to talk to me about what happened at the house and he’s been holed up in his apartment ever since and I just – I was worried. I was so worried.”_

“Shit, Nate, I’m sorry.” He leans up against the kitchen island heavily then tilts his head to the side. There’s still a dent in it, the wood still cracked where Geralt had barrelled into it that first night. _It’s real. It has to be._

 _“Just… what happened?”_ Nate pleads and Jaskier wonders how much sleep he’d lost trying to reach him. _“I tried going to the mansion but the road’s blocked. We’re waiting for the emergency services to send someone to clear the uprooted trees from the path.”_

“We got into a fight,” He responds honestly. “It got physical and I almost fell over the banister.” Talking about it seems so mundane now even though he’d been livid back then. Spending days on the run, in danger, getting stabbed and killing a man puts things into perspective.

Nate sucks in a sharp breath. “ _Julian_.”

“It’s fine, no harm done, yeah?” He reassures the other, finally moving towards the sink to get himself a glass of water. “You’re in the night shift, right?”

 _“What? Oh. I – I didn’t realize it was this early. Are you alright? Why are you awake?”_ Nate’s tone turns concerned again and Jaskier sighs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be okay again but he can’t exactly say that.

“Yeah, had a weird dream so I woke up. Don’t worry about it.” He eyes the glass of water. “Listen, I’ll talk to you at a decent hour, the phone’s about to die.”

“ _Yeah, alright. Go to sleep and call me when you’re rested. Nigh.”_

“Night, Nate.” He hangs up and downs the glass of water. Nate didn’t say anything about Cirilla. He didn’t mention her at all. It was almost like he didn’t even know about her. Like she didn’t exist.

He washes out the glass and puts it on the drying rack. Real or not, it matters very little. What he’d been through, what he realized and what Geralt and the rest had taught him, that’s what matters – that’s what’s _real_. He should – he needs to talk to Valentin. He needs to make things right and he’s not going to do that by sitting on his arse and avoiding responsibilities.

There is much to be done.

* * *

Alone again in the mansion, Jaskier gives in to the urge to drink himself stupid for two days before he grows tired of that, too. Then he sits at the piano and plays until his fingers cramp and his arms hurt. Living alone in the big house hurts so much more this time around. There is no quiet patter of feet or claws against hardwood floors, there is no piano music drifting through the house unless he’s the one playing it. There is no sound of pages being turned and the quiet murmur of Cirilla’s voice as she reads out loud.

It’s horribly depressing and Jaskier hates it all over again.

Then, the Count dies before Jaskier has the time to speak with Valentin who’s still avoiding everyone.

Nate comes for him four days after he’d woken up from his death and left everything that he’s come to love and cherish behind. The quiet rumble of his car alerts Jaskier to his presence and he waits in the dusty foyer for the man to make his way into the house.

The moment he sees the pity in the other’s eyes as he opens the door, he knows what this is about.

“He’s dead.” Jaskier states, briefly wondering if this correlates to his murder of king Emhyr.

“I’m sorry,” Nate takes off his hat and scrunches it between his hands.

“Why?” He tilts his head, perplexed. “He was a bad man. He was sick. He’s threatened you on multiple occasions. He’s mistreated his people and his family. There’s nothing to be sorry for, he was a piece of shit.”

“Jaskier,” Nate’s eyes widen. “Jaskier, he was your father.”

“Yes and _that_ is a fact that I am immensely sorry for.” He waves the other to follow him and leads them through the gallery and into the piano room. He spares a glance to the big portrait of Queen Calanthe, ignoring the way it makes him feel hollow _er_ than usual, as they pass. He sits and starts playing, a sombre tone to occupy his hands while Nate speaks to him about whatever it is that he’s come here to speak to him about.

“What happened?” Nate asks again and Jaskier smiles.

“Let’s just say that I’ve had some time to think about things. That last encounter with Val really opened up my eyes to certain aspects of life I was wilfully ignorant about.” He hums, frowning as the pedal sticks – he’ll have to fix that later.

“Will you talk to him?” Nate’s puppy eyes were always impressive but there was no need for them, now.

“Yes,” He agrees easily. “I’ll even come to the funeral. But, only to catch him there. He’s refusing to answer my calls.”

“Yes, Marina says he’s kicked her out of the apartment. He’s not letting anyone in.” Nate looks away from Jaskier and there’s such pain in his expression that Jaskier’s resolve almost cracks.

“Now _that’s_ just rude. To keep the wife away? An overreaction.” He sighs. “We exchanged strong words, yes, but – nothing that should cause this sort of behaviour.” No, what caused it is probably the fact that he’d almost killed Julian and then taken it too lightly. Jaskier is still angry about it, yes, but it’s one of his lesser worries at the moment.

“Julian – you’re… something’s wrong.” Nate crosses his arms over his chest and Jaskier misses the next note of the sonata.

His fingers clang against the ivory keys and the notes ring out through the empty room. “Yes. I suppose there is. I just – I can’t explain it, Nate, not without sounding completely batshit insane, mate.”

“You seem… stable, solidified, in a way you weren’t before. More serious.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m as unstable as ever. I’ve just had my eyes opened, like I said. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.” He smiles faintly, not managing to muster up the strength to give a full grin.

Nate looks at him for a couple of moments in silence before nodding. “The funeral is in two days. I’ll come get you then.”

* * *

The funeral is a sombre affair but nobody cries. The widow, their stepmother Ana, throws the first fistful of dirt as the archpriest reads the eulogy someone official enough had written. The members of the Count’s council, those that are still alive and able to stand, are gathered on one side, watching the proceedings with contempt in their eyes.

He himself, Nate and cousin Yara stand by the newly-minted gravestone. It’s a tacky ordeal; with the Count’s picture framed in a round, golden, gilded picture frame adorning the middle of the marble monstrosity. There’s a spot free in the grave next to the Count’s shiny coffin where his wife will be laid to rest when she dies.

_Here lies Anatol Pankratz II, the Count._

He grazes the golden lettering with a critical eye, annoyed at the distasteful display of wealth in a country that’s falling apart.

His brother is there, too. He’s hiding in the back, standing under a tree nearby, draped in black from head to toe and doing an admirable job of looking like the grim reaper. His wife isn’t with him, though. Marina’s probably back home in Serbia by now, telling her family that the Count has passed and that the empire will be left suspended until the heirs can take over.

The funeral is pathetic. It’s all a sham. Every one of these men who were on the Count’s council had tried to kill him at least once. His new wife hates him, too; she’s happy with the money she’d been left – Julian can see her hiding a smile – but she’s also a potential threat to the inheritance. He can’t blame her, he’s just not looking forward to what comes next.

He rubs the sleeve of his shirt over his face to wipe away the sweat. It’s still warm outside and the fact that it’s three in the afternoon isn’t helping.

“Jesus, he couldn’t have died in a month or so? This is unbearable.” He murmurs, only loud enough for Nate and Yara to hear. Yara chokes back a snicker and Nathaniel glares at him mightily. There’s nothing to say as the archpriest finishes his speech and he turns to where Valentin is standing.

“I’m surprised you’re even here.” Yara notes, “Heard about London.”

“Yes, well, there are so very few freedoms when it comes to this family.” He sighs, checking his phone to see how much time had passed. “It’s the only time I’ll be able to catch Val.”

“He’s being difficult,” She frowns, green eyes trained on the lone figure by the tree as well.

“Yes.” He pockets his phone and pulls out the pack of smokes instead. Walking towards his brother, he lights one up.

“You’re not crying,” He says, smiling around the cigarette as Valentin rolls his eyes.

“Nobody is,” The older responds and Julian thinks about how he must be boiling in his stupid suit jacket.

“No, they’re not. They’re bloody happy.” He offers the cigarette to the other and Valentin takes it, inhaling the smoke gratefully. His hands are shaking, Julian notes. “As they should be. I am. Aren’t you?”

“Julian,” The other warns and he snorts.

“We need to talk.” He turns to face the other fully. “I’ve thought about a lot of things over the past few days. I have… _ideas_ , let’s say.”

“Ideas?” Valentin raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes, ideas.” He looks around to see the graveyard workers shovelling dirt into the hole and filling the grave back up. In a couple of days a black marble frame will be placed around the plot and covered with two heavy slabs, sealing the Count off forever. “We’ll talk more after the reading of the will.” He nods to his brother and tosses him the pack of smokes, he definitely looks like he needs them more than Jaskier does.

“That’s the most civil I’ve seen you two being in a while.” Yara joins him on his trek to Nate’s car.

“Yes, well. You’ve been gone for quite some time.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And so have I.”

* * *

“ _In the event of my death, should it be violent, my empire and all that it entails, sans the house and the part that will be left to my wife regardless of the circumstances of my death, will fall into the hands of the council and shall remain there until the heirs have ascended to their rightful place_.” The lawyer drones on. It’s been half an hour already and the late Count’s office they’re in has no AC, it’s getting stuffy.

“ _In the events of my death, should it be of disease or old age, my empire and all that it entails, sans the house and the part that will be left to my wife regardless of the circumstances of my death, will be inherited by my sons.”_ The lawman frowns down at the paper and then looks up at them.

He and Val are the ones seated because there are only two leather chairs in the room, in front of the mahogany desk. Valentin looks like he’s caving in on himself and Julian is doing his best to sprawl as inelegantly in the chair as possible – contemplating putting his feet up on dear old dad’s favourite stack of books that he always kept by the desk. The council is eyeing them all warily because, really, it’s a change of pace and the old bastards live for drama.

“Yes?” Yara asks, waving a hand for the man to continue.

 _“You shall proceed thusly only, and only if, both Julian Alfred Pankratz and Valentin Jakub Pankratz, accept their birthright and choose their third in one of their cousins to make the trusted triad._ ” The man finishes and puts the papers down, taking off his glasses to wipe them.

“Well, there goes that.” Valentin mutters, hands fidgeting with his cufflinks as Yara shifts in the background.

“So, if the gentlemen and their trusted third would sign these papers right here, the assets shall be handed over.” The lawyer pushes some of the papers towards them and places a silver pen on top of them, assuming the third has already been chosen.

“Guess we’re done here,” Valentin pushes himself up and out of the chair but Julian’s not done yet.

“Yara,” He turns to look at the redhead. “Would you accept if we asked you to be the trusted third?”

She gapes at him, mouth open and eyes wide.

The rule of the three is a particular rule that has kept the Count’s empire stable for many generations. Despite what Nate thought he knew, there was a reason that the Count had two sons that wasn’t just _the magnitude of the inheritance_. It was tradition as much as the triad was.

Have two brothers rule and they’ll be at each other’s throats in a matter of months with this much power involved. But, add a third and the power gets distributed into three parts instead of two who can oppose each other. The third is the one chosen to mediate, to be the link between the two immediate heirs and the council. Anatol and his brother Eryk, Yara’s father, had lead the empire with their uncle’s son, Dawid. Uncle Eryk had died three or so years ago and Dawid had died five years before that. There were no replacements because they were so old already and Anatol, his dear father, knew his time was limited. He’d focused on training Valentin to his best abilities and only managed to give the guy grey hairs. 

To be asked into the trusted triad was the highest of honours in their family. It is a position of trust, reserved only for those of the best judgement and rationale. It is not something you just spring up on someone.

Yara switches to Spanish. _“What are you planning?”_

 _“Do you trust me?”_ He grins at her, trying to project confidence and she sighs.

“Yes. Alright, I’ll do it.” She reaches between the two of them and signs her name in the allotted spot. Julian signs his own up top and then turns to Val.

“Well? Are _you_ going to do it or not?” He implores expectantly and now it’s Valentin that’s looking at him like he’s lost his fucking mind.

Last time anyone gave him _that_ particular look, he’d been introducing Ciri to the concept of brushing one’s teeth every morning and night and – no. He tries not to grimace as his innards seem to pulsate with a wave of pain at the thought of Ciri and Geralt.

“You-” Valentin starts but snaps his mouth shut. “Alright,” He takes the pen from Julian’s hand and signs the papers.

“Well, if that is all.” The lawyer gathers the papers again and looks to the council. “You gentlemen are now formally dismissed. Your severance packages will be delivered by the end of the week. Goodbye.”

The former council members, 8 out of the original 12, shuffle out of the room in an orderly fashion and are quickly followed by the lawyer, leaving the three new leaders alone in the office.

“What the hell are you playing at, Julian?” Valentin demands as he gets up to go sit in the freshly vacated spinny chair as Yara takes his seat. It’s ridiculously comfortable and he sways himself from side to side as he thinks about replying.

“You see, the system of _trusted_ _three_ works because they all have a common goal. They all wish to see this empire succeed. They all want money and prosperity and power. Oh, the power!” He throws his hands up for dramatic effect. “And you’d told me that the trusted three that you’d have is you, me, and dear cousin Yara who’d lived much the same childhood as we had just – in a different place.”

“What’s your point?” Valentin slams his hands on the table. “I thought you hated this family? I thought you’d sell us out sooner than you’d admit you were a part of it?!”

“I wasn’t done speaking. Sit. Down.” He grinds out and he must look like he means it because his brother backs off immediately.

“As I was saying, a common goal. Now, you see, you’d made a mistake. While you were away with dad whenever we visited uncle Eryk, I was with Yara, talking about how much we despise the cards we’d been dealt and how much we hated not being able to have a normal childhood.” He nods to her and she huffs out a small laugh, obviously remembering the countless hours spent lamenting and whining over how everything sucked.

“So, you know. _Our_ common goal was to see this whole empire fall while yours was to see it succeed. You’re outnumbered, Val, _and_ you haven’t been paying attention.” He taps his fingers against the table as his brother stares at him in shock.

“If you tear this down I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Go to the police?” He scoffs. “You haven’t chosen your part of the council and neither have I. And we’ll keep it that way. I am not in the mood to have old men thinking they know better than me. Not anymore.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Valentin asks, disbelief clear on his face.

“Oh, you mean after you almost killed me?” He smiles pleasantly and Yara whips her head to the side to glare at Valentin.

“I had a long, hard, think about what I value in life and what I can do with what I’ve been given. Some people don’t have a choice, but, also, some people turn that non-choice around and make it into something else entirely. And since you’ve given me no other choice but to rejoin this family if I want to remain alive, safe and _free_ , I am turning this choice around.” He spins the chair around until he has his hands in one of the filing cabinet’s drawers, pulling out papers upon papers of important documents.

“You have no council that will stand behind you, Val.” He remarks as he looks over some of the more legit-looking deals and business proposals. “You’ve been so worried about being daddy’s perfect heir that you neglected to make friends. And friends, _connections_ , are what make or break an organization like this, you know?”

“Julian, I’m begging you.” Valentin pleads sincerely for the first time in years and something inside Jaskier settles.

He closes his eyes and breathes out steadily, a smile spreading across his face.

He thinks about Cirilla, how she’d had all of her choices taken away. He thinks about Geralt and how much he’d had to sacrifice just to survive. He thinks about Yennefer and Renfri, Mousesack and Vesemir, even Pavetta and Duny, and how much they have all lost. He thinks about how lucky he is to live in a world where he can actually _do_ something about his own life. He’s been given an opportunity that none of them had been given. He can do something with the power he’s being given. There is no magic threatening his life, there is no impossible task he has to complete. All of this power has simply always been his just by the rights of his birth. And he’s finally doing something with it.

“We’re going legitimate.” He turns back around, posture a little more relaxed than moments ago. “We’re turning this into a legal business. There’ll be some corners cut and some loses felt but we’re not doing drugs, organs or exotic animals any longer. You want drugs? Pharmaceuticals. You want organs? Import-export with our big trucks. You want exotic animals? Go fucking – work at a zoo or something.”

Yara lets out a squeal, kicking her legs up in joy. “Jaskier! That’s a wonderful idea!”

“No more poaching, no more prostitution, no more – for fuck’s sake, Val, they’ve been trafficking firearms to gangs and domestic terrorists! And you stood by and watched! You enabled it! Do you want to raise your child like dad raised us? So that they know how to throw a knife and shoot a gun before they even know how to boil water?” He meets the older’s eyes and they’re wide and a little panicked. “You can’t want that for them. Even if you don’t love your wife, you want her to be safe? You want her to go back to her family and be happy, yes?”

“I – yes, of course. Father knew I did not wish to marry but the corporation it would have tied us to…” Valentin closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Father always wanted things from people. We were never anything more than pawns to him. Uncle Eryk was no better and Dawid was even worse. I know what he did to mother, Val, grandma told me.” 

Valentin sucks in a startled breath. “Julian.”

“I know he wanted another son so that the triad could be kept in his family only as he was the firstborn. I know that she couldn’t – not after she had me. And that he chased her out of the country, kept her locked up in a house somewhere where nobody would know her _shame_. Same as he tried to do with me. I tried finding her but I never could.” He stops the sob from escaping his mouth and bites down on his bottom lip hard.

“Ana didn’t give him any kids either but by the time he’d married her, the problem was with him and, well, she’s a great deal younger than him.” Valentin nods, not trying to lessen the hurt because there’s no need.

“I used to resent you because you’d gotten more years to be with mum than I did. I still do. But resentment isn’t going to solve problems. What’s done is done, the damage nigh irreparable. And yet, we still live. We live to make decisions and do things and exist to move mountains or whatever.” He slumps into the chair, forcing his body to relax.

“Are you going to fight me on this, Val, or are you going to help?” He asks again, not wanting to fight any longer.

He thinks about, _remembers_ , Geralt and his strong arms and his kind eyes and gentle smile. He wants. He yearns. And he thinks about how he’ll never have anything like that ever again. But that’s alright, he can live with the knowledge that he’d killed the king and that Ciri is safe to go home now.

“Things are different now that he’s dead.” Yara starts, “The old guard has been honourably discharged and the new shift is young and spry and perky. If anybody is going to make a change, it’s going to be us.”

“You know it’s the right thing to do.” He adds hopefully, smiling as Valentin squirms in his seat because he knows that they’re right.

“Alright, fine! Jesus, stop giving me the puppy eyes, both of you.” Valentin cracks with a mighty, heaving sigh.

“Yes!” He yells, reaching over the desk to high-five Yara.

“It’s not going to be easy.” Valentin grumbles, standing up.

“No, but we’ll do it anyway. Because we’re turning our choices around. Into something good for everyone.” He stands as well, thinking about how he’ll go make them some food after they leave the office.

“You do know that if we do this, you’ll never be able to go back to being a singer.” Valentin’s eyes are sad this time, his tone remorseful and Jaskier, well.

“I know. I think – I think that it never was the right life for me. It was there more to prove to you all that I could make something of myself on my own. The media attention, the always having to be careful, it’s – degrading in a way. I was always told to be myself and not being able to share parts of me with the world made me someone else.” He admits reluctantly, wincing at the truth he’s always known was deep inside him.

“It’ll be difficult to withdraw just like that, sure, but – you know. It looks like I’ll be kept busy for quite some time starting tomorrow.” He grins and hopes it doesn’t come off as shaky as it feels.

He can always write songs at home. He can compose and he can play all the instruments he wants in the comfort of his own home but he can never take back a misspoken word, a rumour proven true or a secret leaked. This is safer, this is _better_.

“Come on, I’m starving. I’ll make us some food.” He offers, holding out an arm and opening the door to the office to usher them out. 

“Holy shit, you can cook?” Yara quips and Jaskier nods.

Yeah, they’ll be alright.

* * *

It takes a while. It takes a _long_ while, half a year to be precise, for them to get the company legalized and back on the right side of the law. It’s been hard work, it’s been battling law and overcoming obstacles he hadn’t even thought of before. It seemed impossible at times but he stuck by them through it all.

He didn’t go back to the mansion. Instead he’d stayed with Valentin and Yara at the Pankratz’s childhood home. Yet another mansion filled with ghosts and memories that pain him. At least in the woodland abode he could have remembered moments and been happy that he’d lived through them but here in their old home, a house he’d so desperately run from, all he can do is walk through the rose garden when the memories become overwhelming.

Valentin and Yara can find him out there most days, no matter the weather, and Yara even calls meetings in the gazebo by the pond so that he wouldn’t have to feel stifled and suffocated inside their late father’s office. It’s a gesture kinder than anyone from his family has ever offered him and he often sees the way Valentin caves in on himself every time he’d sincerely thank Yara for anything. And she’s – well, she’s very different than both of them. Her childhood was similar to theirs, yes, but she also had a kind and loving mother to put balm on her wounds after everything.

She’s been good for distractions overall. Her mood is generally less glum than that of the two brothers so Jaskier tends to leech off her good cheer whenever he’s feeling down – whenever he feels like he’s going to run. Because he _is_ tempted, more often than not, to steal Valentin’s fancy Audi and just book it for the forest and the mansion he’s come to associate with Geralt and Ciri. He wants his stupid, ugly chairs back and he wants to actually plant something in the greenhouse and maybe get it fixed. But he can’t go back on his word, not now when they’re so close.

He’s sitting in the gazebo again when Yara comes to find him.

“Tomorrow’s the big day. You nervous? Excited? Terrified?” She settles herself down on the table, handing him a cup of coffee.

He accepts the warm mug gratefully, “Oh, I am shitty my pants right now. I can’t believe we did this and that nobody’s tried to murder me yet.” He admits. He’s been twitchy for months now. After a little coup in the beginning, trying to overtake the power from them and steal from the treasury, that they’d had to stifle rather forcefully, he hasn’t let his guard down.

“We’re almost home free with this. Tomorrow’s the final signing and then we’ll be fully legal. How do you want to celebrate?” She swings her legs and sips at her own cup.

He sighs, looking up at the horizon and the clouds gathered there. It’s cold, the beginning of March, there’s still snow on the ground and the rosebushes are still very dead. He will be sad not to see this place in full bloom, he remembers it being beautiful. 

“There’s gonna be rain. We haven’t had a thunderstorm in months.” Not since the last one, not since he’d been taken to the other world. But that – he’s still not entirely sure that’d even happened.

“Yes, it’s surprising. Usually autumn is full of them here but last year there wasn’t a single one.” Yara tilts her head curiously. “So? A big party, a fancy dinner? Strippers and blackjack?”

“I think I’ll be going home.” He flips the mug onto the table next to Yara and stares at it for a moment before gathering it up again.

“I haven’t seen anyone do that since grandma,” She hums quietly. “Home where?”

He stares at the swirling shapes in the sediment on the sides of the white mug. There’s nothing too distinct there to really, truly, tell a story, and he’s not really good at it either (not like grandma was) but there is one shape he can make out and it causes his breath to hitch. A wolf’s profile, maw open in a howl at the crescent moon.

“The mansion in the forest. I think I’ve deserved a vacation.”

* * *

The papers get signed, Yara cuts the ribbon on their new building and Julian slinks away before anyone can engage him in conversation.

That is, until Valentin tracks him down where he’s having a smoke outside.

“Leaving so soon?” Valentin holds out a hand and Julian passes him the cigarette.

“Nothing for me here. I’ve done all that I can and we – we’ve done what we set out to do. I’m going to the mansion for a little while and then I don’t know. Maybe I go back to London, pick up a few things before moving on to another city.” He watches as the cars pass and huddles further into his military green greatcoat. “I don’t know how to lead a company, Val, I know nothing about business.”

“So you’re – you’re just going to leave? After all this… you’re done?” The older looks apprehensive as he stares at him and really, Julian can’t blame the guy.

“It’s not for me, all of this.” He motions vaguely with his hand, indicating the whole of Poland. “I can never life free here. I can’t love who I want, I can’t dress the way I want. I can’t be who I am, Val, you know that.”

Sexuality has always been a sore topic for their family, especially when it came to him. Because he never wanted to hide that he was attracted to whoever he was attracted to – regardless of gender, race, ethnicity or religion. He never hid that part of himself and for a long while he had the privilege of being protected against threats due to his father being who he was. But he’d never been allowed to act on any attractions so it’d done him jack shit.

Valentin, well, he’s not sure what it is exactly because they’d never talked about it but if he had to guess, he’d guess it was _neither_. However, Val was the one that had to carry on the bloodline as the firstborn so his sexuality was never a question in the first place. It was an especially sore topic because it tied into the problem of free will and making one’s own decisions – which, they were never allowed to do.

“I know you still feel like you have an obligation to the family but, you don’t.” He takes the cigarette back and finishes it off, dropping the butt and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. “I belong out there, in the world.”

Valentin nods, heaving a sigh. “Just… promise you won’t cut us off again? I hated having to listen to shitty talk shows and reading tabloids just to see what you were up to.”

His chest floods with warmth, a smile making it onto his face. Despite everything they’ve been though and how distant they’ve become, Valentin still cared about him even when Jaskier’d made it a point to leave his family in the past.

“Yeah, course I’ll keep in touch. I’ll text you as soon as I get a new phone. This one’s pretty shite” He pats his pocket and Valentin nods again, seemingly placated.

“See you before you leave the country?” The older asks and Jaskier pulls him into a hug.

“I’ll call you,” He promises and shoves the other away playfully. “Take care, Valerie.”

“Yeah, love you, too, Julianna.” Valentin smacks him on the shoulder then ambles away.

“That was oddly endearing,” Nate, who Jaskier knows has been standing around the corner waiting for him to finish his smoke for a while now, comments.

“Happy to see us bonding?” He tilts his head up to meet the other’s eyes, they look lighter, the crow’s feet around them not as prominent.

“You know I am,” Nate chuckles and motions to his car. “Come on, it’s freezing out and the wind’s picking up.”

“Smells like ozone,” He hums, letting himself be ushered into the warm interior.

A snowball splatters across the windshield, causing them to jump in surprise.

“Damn kids,” Nate mutters then freezes, one hand halfway on the wheel and the other already on the key. “Shit, Jaskier, what happened to that kid you were housing?!”

Something in his neck cracks as he whips around to stare at the other. “You – you mean Ciri?”

“Yeah, the one you found bleeding in your back yard. The one that tried to stab me.” Nate’s eyes are wild and frantic and Jaskier’s chest rattles with the sound of his heartbeat.

_It was real – it was fucking real._

“She, um, found her way back home. No worries.” He clears his throat as Nate nods reluctantly.

“And you let her go?” The other asks and Jaskier smiles sardonically.

“She found her family, Nate, there was nothing I could do.” He’d done enough. He’d done a lot for her. He would have done so much more if only he’d had the time, if only he’d stayed. And he realizes that he would have stayed, yes, if he could have. He’d have stayed if she or Geralt or even Renfri asked. But that isn’t his world and so he didn’t belong there. He was expunged rather forcefully and he has a sinking feeling that he won’t be going back either.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Nate starts the car. “I’m – I’m sorry. I know you cared about her a lot.”

“I do, I still do. But I can care about her and not have her here with me. A little distance between us doesn’t mean I’ll magically stop caring. And it hurts a little, but – such is life.”

“Profound _and_ depressing.”

“Just… get me home, Nate.”

* * *

The winding path becomes bumpier the deeper into the estate’s forest that they go and Jaskier has to hang on for dear life once the pavement almost disappears completely, potholes becoming chunks of missing concrete. The trees only become sparse where they meet the cast-iron, rusted fence that borders a wide berth around the old mansion. The posts for the fence are made of crumbling brick and missing in some places entirely so Jaskier, but the main gate – that’s entirely too large and ornate, tacky but it still holds true and steady, no matter how much the wind whips at it. It’s a comforting sight.

He gets out of the car and pushes the gates open, relishing in the grating sound they make. The mansion’s been empty for half a year now, there’re weeds growing all around and vines climbing the corners, it somehow remains the same. It could have once been a beautiful summer home in the _Old Country_ but it is well past its prime now. And yet, he’s not complaining about the outdated-ness.

There is no luggage to haul out of the car this time around. There is nothing to be angry about either. He’s – nostalgic at best. He’ll get over it eventually, he knows, but for a few days more he’d like to wallow in the mansion.

“Christ, this place is still a fire hazard.” He runs a finger along the lone round table that sits there under the idle chandelier in the foyer and smiles when it comes away dusty. “Lovely.”

There large lawn out back, the set of fancy gates in the fence (one wing still uprooted), and beyond that a thick forest that doesn’t let much light through the canopy remain the same and it’s a comfort. It’s the sort of ominous that Julian’s grown up with – and grown used to. All these manors are the same but, to him, this one is just a tad bit more special. Just another half-empty house decaying and heeding laws of a time passed that now holds fond memories and a life that could have been.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Nate asks, surveying the damaged bannister and the pieces of wood still littering the floor that he hadn’t bothered moving.

“Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave, don’t worry.” He smiles and walks into the kitchen, ignoring the mess left there, he walks out the back door and into the cold air.

He takes in lungful of air and lets out a little laugh. He hadn’t realized how different the air was here and in the city and how it was all so different to the other reality. He doesn’t miss the other world, not really.

It was confusing and violent and it had none of the comforts he was used to and none of the basic necessities (like indoor plumbing) that he needed on a daily basis. It was grimy and dirty and dangerous and it wasn’t a world that he thought he could fit in because it simply wasn’t his world. But – but he missed the people. He missed his two people the most. Having grown used to Geralt’s presence being by his side over the past months – be it in wolf form or human form – he feels the other’s absence like a missing limb. And not to even get started on Cirilla and how much he misses her quiet gentleness and her bright and curious mind.

Going back inside, he gathers firewood from the crate by the door and lights a fire in the sitting room fireplace. He then picks up one of the books still on the table in the library and dusts it off, settles in for a quiet night.

Somewhere around the middle of Verne’s _The Mysterious Island,_ he dozes of.

He wakes up with a start, dropping the book onto the ground and shivering despite the greatcoat he still has on. The fire’s gone out and it’s freezing in the mansion.

He realizes that what woke him up wasn’t the cold but the sound of thunder coming from outside. His entire body freezes as the room lights up with a flash of lightning. He stares out the window but there’s – there’s no good view of the back yard. Quickly and quietly, he shuffles over to the kitchen from where the forest is the most visible.

He sucks in a sharp breath and squashes down the disappointment he feels when his eyes meet nothing but the dark midnight sky and the glinting of the greenhouse. The feeling spreads through his body and he does what he’s always done when his frustrations got the better of him – he finds a piano and plays. He plays until the heavy notes are louder than the rain and the storm and the screams he wants to release. He plays until his fingers hurt, until his joints ache and there’s a phantom pain stabbing through his gut. He plays until the sound of grinding, rusted, metal snaps him out of his daze.

“Fuck,” He mutters to himself, pressing his face against the window. He still can’t see much but there is something flickering in the dark between the trees.

His heart starts beating double time as the rain continues to pour. His mind flashes back to the time he’d found Ciri standing out there and then the next time Geralt’s big wolf form had come barrelling through the gates.

Another flash of lightning but this time the sky doesn’t go back to black. Instead, everything stays perfectly lit like it’s not the middle of the night. He gapes, slowly moving towards the door of the piano room and then running through the gallery once he realizes that something’s definitely happening that shouldn’t be happening. He bursts out the kitchen door and into the cold night air only to realize that the rain’s stopped falling. It’s almost like the whole mansion has been enveloped into a protective bubble.

The remaining wing of the rusted gate is wrenched open with a powerful swoosh of _something_ and it flies sideways and out of sight. The sound of a horn – a sound that is entirely too similar to the war horn he’d heard at Sodden – pierces the air and Jaskier’s knees almost give out.

Slowly, figures start emerging from the thick forest one by one.

There’s a figure clad in white that’s running towards him and before he can even comprehend what’s really happening, he’s running towards the gates.

“Jaskier!” The familiar voice cries out and Jaskier is almost taken off his feet by the impact of Ciri slamming into his arms.

He picks her up and spins her around, choking back a relieved sob. “Oh, little Dove, how I’ve missed you.”

“Jaskier,” She whispers, tightening her arms around him as he comes to a stop.

“Ciri,” He chuckles as she refuses to let him go. He places a kiss on top of her head and lifts his eyes to see a pretty big entourage that had escorted her here – including Geralt and Renfri and, surprisingly, Yennefer. His stomach clenches as Geralt steps out of the line-up, an almost broken look on his face.

The wolf approaches slowly, hands outstretched like he’s afraid to touch but he can’t think of doing anything else. So he reaches out as well and lets Geralt join their hug. He feels the other’s arms wrap around him and grip the back of his coat.

“Hello, darling.” He laughs, a wet and messy sound because he’s crying. Tears stream down his face as Geralt noses under his chin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grinds out much like Ciri did, tortured and tugging on his heart strings.

“The one and only. I have to admit, you two – you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He breathes out and feels like he can finally do so with the whole of his lungs for the first time since he’d died in the other world.

“Jaskier – we were so worried. You – he stabbed you! And then you just – _disappeared!!_ ” She shudders against him, obviously shedding tears of her own if the quiet sobbing is anything to go by.

“I’m fine, I’m alright. I – what are you doing here, love?” His cheeks ache from how hard he’s smiling, the widest in months.

“We – we didn’t know…” She trails off, looking back at the entourage and at the pale-haired woman standing there.

“Ciri,” Geralt pulls back, almost self-consciously. “Do you want to introduce him?”

“Yes, I’d very much like that. We’ll explain everything later.” She smiles up at him blindingly and Jaskier feels his insides melt. She’s so very precious and Jaskier would die all over again for her to have the life that she deserves.

“Come,” Cirilla takes his hand and Geralt is forced to release him in order for her to usher him closer to the entourage. There are about twenty soldiers standing at attention behind where Yennefer and Renfri are. The younger wolf looks like she’s ready to jump out of her skin as he approaches but also like she’s holding herself back from jumping _him_ and tackling him in a hug – something to look forward to later.

“Jaskier,” Ciri says when they come to a stop in front of the unfamiliar lady. “This is Queen Pavetta, my mother.”

“Oh,” He straightens up, unsure of how to act and decides that bowing would be the most appropriate action. “Pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Jaskier,” Her voice is pleasant as she says his name. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard much about you and, of course, all that you’ve done for my daughter and my kingdom. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh, no worries. It was – well. I wouldn’t say that it was pleasant the whole way through but I _would_ do it over again if it meant that the princess would be safe. It seemed like the right thing to do. So, no thanks necessary, I guess.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair nervously. The Queen’s got the same piercing eyes as Ciri and Jaskier feels very uneasy with them settled on him so firmly.

“Were it not for you, things would not be as they are now. The kingdoms, they are on their way to recovery. It will be difficult to unlearn the behaviours of the past but we are working towards a peaceful coexistence.” She inclines her head in a nod and Jaskier sees the pointy ears peeking through her long hair.

“So, uh,” He clears his throat. “What brings you here, Your Highness?” He asks and hears Yennefer hold in a snort.

“We wanted to thank you for what you’ve done. I was devastated to find that you’d been – well, not exactly killed, no – in the battle of Sodden. I wanted to honour your memory but Yennefer had informed us, after some extensive locator spells, that you were still alive. So we wanted to bring you back and throw a feast in your honour, erect a statue in your likeness in Cintra.” The Queen sighs, her smile dimming as she runs a hand down the back of Ciri’s head gently.

“Unfortunately, it appears as though you cannot return to the other world. With your untimely death, your body and spirit were expelled from the world and if you are to return – you will most likely die permanently within moments.” She states calmly and Ciri gasps.

“Oh,” He staggers a little where he’s standing, bumping back into Geralt whose presence there is a great comfort. “Well, um. Yes, let’s – not do that, then.” He can never go back.

Which means – which means that this will be goodbye for who knows how long. And this, in turn, means that he’d been expecting to go back – even if subconsciously. He looks at Ciri then at Geralt, they’re sporting the same look of stubborn sadness – almost like they’d argued this moot point before.

“We decided then, that you shall be knighted here where we can all stay for a little while.” Pavetta waves her hand and the soldiers form two lines, a couple of them unrolling a red carpet as they go. Yennefer wiggles her fingers and transforms a piece of _something_ in her hand into a throne.

“Oh – oh, I should… change? _Should_ I change? I feel like I’m underdressed. Geralt? Do I need armour or something?” He turns in the wolf’s arms and the taller just snorts.

“You’re perfectly fine in what you’re wearing.” Geralt flicks one of the epaulets of the double-breasted greatcoat.

“Just _fine_?” He teases, batting his eyelashes at the other and Geralt immediately does that weird thing again where his stare grows intense. It always makes Jaskier want to squirm.

“Perfect,” Geralt says with more reverence than Jaskier had expected and it makes his cheeks heat.

He clears his throat and makes the mistake of glancing to the side where Yennefer and Renfri are giving the two of them _looks_ of _something_ that Jaskier refuses to call implicative. Yennefer _winks_ at him and he forces his eyes away from the two of them, ignoring the steadily rising temperature inside his body that is responding to Geralt’s proximity like it needs the heat to survive.

“Jaskier,” Pavetta calls and he turns to see where the throne had been set up between two torches and at the end of the red carpet. The soldiers are stood down the length of it, ten on each side with two flanking the Queen. “If you’d please.” She motions to the carpet and he nods.

“Go,” Ciri pats his back, bouncing excitedly next to Geralt who is looking very proud with his chest puffed out.

“Oh, Christ. Alright. Time for the accolade, I guess.” He straightens up, tugging at his greatcoat to make it a little less wrinkly. He shouldn’t have slept in it, probably. He flattens down his hair where he feels it sticking up and begins the walk down the carpet. This is the second red carpet he’s been on that didn’t involve Hollywood of the music industry but at least, this time, he’s not about to possibly get murdered. He walks at a moderate pace until he reaches the end of the carpet.

The Queen stands up and holds out a hand for a sword that one of the soldiers by her side hands her. “Please, kneel.” She instructs and he does as commanded. The ground is harsh and cold under his knees despite the carpet there but he bears it – he’s not about to complain about the lack of a knighting-stool.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, known to us as Jaskier. Today we honour you with a title reserved only for those of the bravest disposition and the kindest of hearts. And you, Jaskier, had shown both. For your exceptional bravery, seen in the actions you’d taken during the battle of Sodden and during the days leading up to it-” She lifts the sword and presses the flat of it onto his right shoulder. “And for your overwhelming kindness shown in the ways you’d conducted yourself with princess Cirilla, heiress to the throne, in her time of need, you have deserved the highest of honours.” The Queen lifts the sword and turns it counter clockwise until the same flat side is pressed to his left shoulder. “I dub thee, Sir Jaskier. Arise by the Order of the Golden Lion.”

He stands up on shaky legs, eyes wide as she hands off the sword and accepts a little velvet box. She pulls out an honest-to-god enamel badge attached to a blue ribbon. She steps closer and clips the star-shaped order badge onto his coat. It’s decorated with a golden lion surrounded by little sapphires and diamond-like jewels. It looked extremely expensive and Jaskier is terrified of breaking it.

The Queen leans in and places a kiss on each of his cheeks before gently running her hand over his right one.

“Thank you.” She smiles and Jaskier feels the urge to bow.

The protective bubble around them flickers and Pavetta’s expression darkens. “Our time here is drawing to a close. While Cirilla and Geralt may be able to spend more time here, I, unfortunately, cannot due to some former - complications.” She smiles sadly. “I hope that you may live your best life here, Jaskier, and that you are proud with what you’ve accomplished.”

“It was never about pride,” He responds immediately because it’s true. “I just – I wanted her to be safe. I wanted her to have some semblance of normality after spending time with her and realizing that she – well, she deserves the world, really.” He reaches up, brushing his tears away with his sleeve. “I’m very proud of her, though, for never once giving up.” He looks back with a smile and Ciri barrels into him again.

“I’ve missed you,” Ciri whispers and Jaskier sees a complicated expression cross the Queen’s face at the familiarity.

“I’ve missed you, too, little dove. The mansion’s just not the same without you.” He admits, hating how his entire body goes cold at the thought of remaining in the house by himself.

“I’m – I’m going to learn the arts properly. I’m going to learn and I’m going to be good and then I’ll be able to come here and visit you regardless of the moon and its colour!” She states with such determination that Jaskier has no choice but to believe her.

“I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes.” The Queen chuckles. “I’d ask you to pass through the portal by morning, Cirilla, there is s till much to be done back home.”

“Of course,” Ciri nods and the Queen excuses herself with a final pat on his cheek, taking her entourage and the props with her.

“She’s lovely,” He chuckles and Ciri nods.

“I don’t really – remember her much. In vague imprints only.” She admits reluctantly and Jaskier’s heart breaks at how familiar that feeling is.

“It’ll be okay, little one. There is time for you to come to know her again now that you’re reunited. You’re safe now, there’s time.” He smiles, wiping his thumb under her eye and gathering the stray tear there.

“Jaskier!” Renfri calls and he turns to accept the hug and the shoulder punch he knows are coming.

“Renfri,” He smiles, “Yen. Lovely to see you both again.”

“You are a difficult man to find.” Yennefer flicks his forehead as Renfri takes his arm hostage.

“Yes, well, I’m not entirely certain how I could have helped that.” He chuckles and Renfri rears back to glare at him.

“How about not dying, huh? That sound like a good plan?” She sneers and he grins sheepishly.

“I couldn’t let him get to Ciri, I had to do something.”

“We thought you were gone for good.” Geralt walks closer and settles a heavy hand on the back of his neck.

“I thought I was a goner but then I – I just woke up here, like nothing happened, and found that only three days had passed.” He shrugs, fighting the sudden urge to hide because Geralt’s got that intense look in his eyes still.

“The Queen can’t stay out of Cintra for long. She’s sick.” Yennefer says, looking in the direction of the retreating entourage.

“Oh, shit.” He mutters, suddenly scared for Ciri again. “Will she – will she be okay?”

“For now, yes. But she can’t stay away from her druids for long.” The sorceress shakes her head sadly. “I know you want to, but, Cirilla, you can’t stay.” Yennefer says to the princess and Ciri just burrows further into his arms.

“It’s too much.” Ciri murmurs.

“You’re not alone, though, little Dove. You have Yen and Renfri and Geralt, and so many others that will help. Nobody is making you do this on your own and if they are, then you can bet your crown I’ll be there to smack them upside the head.” He cups her cheeks and kisses her forehead.

“He’s right,” Yennefer smiles gently at the princess and Jaskier knows exactly how it feels to just have your world turned upside down by the little Dove.

“Thank you.” Cirilla smiles and it’s like the sun is emerging from behind the clouds.

“What happened to the neutral zone?” He asks next, gently shuffling them all towards the mansion.

Yennefer scoffs, “You know what happened. There’s no need for it any longer. I’m going to be teaching Cirilla at the court of Cintra, along with Tissaia and Triss.”

“That’s better than doing busywork in the neutral zone.” He points out and she rolls her eyes.

“Well, _I_ will be helping Vesemir and Geralt train the new generation of wolves now that the Royal Guard had been reinstated.” Renfri puffs out her chest, eyes sparking with excitement.

“A task most arduous but fit for the likes of mighty Renfri!” He slips his hand into hers and twirls her around and through the kitchen door while she laugh.

“You flatterer.” She pinches his cheek and then immediately coos over the interior of the mansion. “What’s this?” She pokes around the fridge until Ciri hops over to show her how to open it.

“Cute,” He nudges Yennefer with his shoulder and she bats him away. “Oh, come now, Yen. You’re not still mad about what I said, are you? I was right and you knew it.”

“I think that’s the problem,” Geralt interjects before the sorceress can respond. “She’s not overly fond of being wrong.”

“Hmpf,” Yennefer turns her nose up at them and follows Ciri and Renfri out of the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re alright.” Geralt’s hand makes its way onto the side of his neck and his body sways, relaxing automatically.

“Oh, Geralt. When I saw you go down before Ciri came running – it was horrible.” He gulps, remembering the panic and the searing pain coursing through his body. “I – I was terrified.”

“So was I.” The wolf admits, voice hushed as he steps closer to Jaskier. “I know you did what you did for Cirilla but – it didn’t make me any less angry. For a long while I was angry. At you, yes, for being reckless, but mostly at myself. For not being enough. For not being strong enough or fast enough.”

“No – Geralt, no. it’s not your fault. Darling, you were _dying_ , you couldn’t do anything.” He reaches up, palms against the wolf’s jaw to make the other meet his gaze.

“I know. Yennefer – well, took some time to explain to me that I am an idiot.” The wolf chuckles and Jaskier feels his hopes get dashed at the thought of Yennefer and Geralt rekindling their romance. It’s not fair to Geralt, definitely, and he immediately feels like a terrible person.

He extracts himself from the other’s hold with a nonchalant huff as soft piano music begins drifting through the rooms. “Good. I’m glad that at least one of you has a more than a single brain cell.”

“Yes, she was quite persistent about proving her point.” Geralt chuckles lowly and Jaskier ignores the clenching of his stomach at the sound.

He nods towards the door and starts heading towards the piano room where Ciri is playing a familiar sonatas. They move silently through the rooms and find Yennefer in the gallery. Geralt continues forward to watch Ciri play while he stops next to Yen who is, predictably, in front of the large portrait of Queen Calanthe.

“This place was a safe haven for her, you know.” She drags a finger down the gilded frame. “The royal family were to retreat here if there was a risk of invasion in Cintra. Only those of the royal blood could open the portal to this world. Though, of course, the bloodlines had been diluted over the years and before Pavetta and Ciri, a lot of the royal heirs couldn’t do magic at all.” Yennefer volunteers the information and Jaskier soaks it all up, still so very curious about the other world.

“Pavetta opened the portals when she had to but it always drained her too much to use magic. She’s rather frail, not fit for the rough world she lives in.” The sorceress shakes her head sadly and Jaskier doesn’t have to imagine what that feels like because he knows.

“The daggers?” He asks, remembering the two weapons that Ciri had come here with.

“They’re not very special but they’re an heirloom. They help channel the magic, draw it to the surface. Ciri was able to recall her supressed magic with them on the night of the new moon and she was able to open the portal here. It’s probably not good for her to spend a lot of time here.” Yennefer sighs, turning to look at him pointedly.

“This world has no magic.” He recalls the conversation between Ciri and Geralt about curses and how they did not translate well.

“No, it does not.”

“I still don’t understand.” He huffs, “How am I still alive? I died there and then just woke up in my bed like nothing had happened.” 

“Magic is always changing. It evolves, it becomes smarter, more adept. It’s also a game of luck for people like you, for humans. In the beginning, humans could pass between the worlds, through the portals, without any consequences. But over time, with their actions, people had forced the magic in the other world to become something new.” Yennefer waves a hand around vaguely. “It evolved and new generations of humans were soon able to use it as well. Humans born there became a part of that world.”

“And I’m not of that world.” He frowns, still so very confused.

“Yes.” She chuckles. “We’ve never tried tracking anyone from this world before. There were only vague references to people vanishing after death, no body left behind, it is widely believed that the first humans were able to establish themselves as invaders due to their immunity to magic. But most of those beliefs were just myths and legends, most were older than the oldest of sorcerers. But it was enough for Ciri to try. So after researching for weeks, we found a spell that might work. And it did.”

“Thank you.” He breathes out. “I – just, thank you, Yen. For taking care of her, for coming here so that I can see that she’s okay for myself.”

She waves him off. “If I had to hear another _oh, but Jaskier says_ or _that’s not how Jaskier reads it_ I’d have run away.”

“Regardless of emotional blackmail,” He laughs, “Thank you.”

“Yes, well, thank you for saving the kingdoms or whatever.” She stares at him for a moment before pulling him in for a brief hug. After a couple of seconds, she pushes him away. “Do you have anything to drink in this place?”

“I’ll make hot chocolate.” He says with an eye-roll and heads back to the kitchen. “Watch the piano, make sure the wolves don’t try and play it. They’re too strong for their own good!”

“Yes, yes.”

* * *

He wishes he could say that the hot chocolate and pleasant conversation puts him at ease but he’d be lying if he did that.

The entire time that they’re seated in the kitchen, he finds himself choking down tears. This is it. This is their goodbye. In about thirty minutes, they’ll be gone from his life forever.

He’ll never see Ciri and her curious eyes again. He’ll never feel the warmth of Geralt’s bulk against his back again. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be really happy again, either. It’s all rather dramatic and Renfri shoots him more than one concerned glance during Yen’s retelling of the battle aftermath that he ignores. He just sips his hot chocolate and counts down the minutes that he has left with his two favourite people.

He should probably be doing something else with his time. He should be telling Ciri that she’s welcome to visit him anytime she wants and that he knows that she’ll accomplish great things. He should be wishing Renfri good luck with her job as the future teacher and intimidating Yennefer into not being mean to Ciri. He should be – he should be grabbing Geralt’s face and kissing him silly because that’s the only thing worth saying.

 _‘We’ll have a heart-to-heart after’_ , he’d said at one point where it seemed likely that he would be able to just blurt everything out in the heat of the moment, in the wake of a victory. It would have been hopeful then, what he had to say. But now, when everything’s so bleak and it feels so _final_ that he doesn’t know if he can say anything at all. If he said something now it wouldn’t be fair to any of them. Ciri would understand, surely, but Geralt would get that stubborn and wrecked look on his face that was always indication of his inner turmoil and Jaskier just couldn’t suffer through that look alone.

The circle outside flickers again and the conversation dims until they’re all quiet.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” He asks, setting his cup down. His hands are shaking, he realizes. It’s rather unfortunate because everyone’s focused on him now and he doesn’t want them to see just how upset he is. He’s supposed to be stronger than this. It’s a happy ending after all.

Ciri latches on to him and refuses to let go until they get to the hole in the fence where the gate used to be. She’s crying again, silently this time, and it breaks his heart that they come from such different worlds.

“You’re not staying here,” She whispers.

“No, I’m not. I’ll be leaving soon, too.” He rubs her back in a comforting motion, choking down his own tears again.

“Once a year,” She looks up at him with wide eyes. “Once a year, in the summer, come here and I’ll find you.”

His chest seizes at the thought of actually being able to see them again but he squashes the hope down in order to ground himself in reality. “Ciri, darling, it already takes so much for you to get here that I – don’t risk your wellbeing just to see me once a year for a couple of hours, love.”

“I would.” She says fiercely and the worst part is that he believes her. “I’ll get better, I’ll find another, easier, way.”

“I know, little Dove, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But – but don’t try too hard on my account, put yourself and your safety first. You’re responsible for a lot more than just your own survival now.” He chides gently and hears how the others shift in the background at his words, equally as uneasy and equally as unwilling to tell her a definitive _no_.

“I’ll still try,” She sniffles, wiping at her eyes with the long sleeve of her dress.

“Thank you,” Renfri steps forward, a hand on his shoulder. “For everything you’ve done.”

He’s done saying his _it was nothing_ s so he just nods, for once speechless in the face of sincerity. He pats her hand and nods to Yennefer. There’s nothing left to be said between the two of them. He hasn’t known her for nearly long enough to feel the same remorse he feels in regards to Ciri and Geralt.

Yennefer leads Ciri away gently and he finally gets to turn and face Geralt.

He smiles gently up at the big brute. The wolf looks sad. Plain and simple sadness written all over his face, etched into the lines of his expression.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt nods and then – then he leaves.

Jaskier watches, baffled, with his heart in his throat as Geralt walks away without as much as a goodbye.

He turns around and marches back into the house, tears streaming down his face as his disbelief turns back into grief. He marches through the kitchen as the shield-bubble-thing dissipates and the blue hour replaces the brightness that the bubble had provided. He marches all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom where he barely kicks off his boots before collapsing into bed so that he can sob into his pillow like a man.

He doesn’t know how much time passes but he finds himself on the precipice of sleep, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness.

But this doesn’t last for long. He finds himself being startled awake by the mattress dipping and his first instinct is to lash out. He swings a fist in a wide arc and fingers wrap around his wrist firmly, halting his strike to be.

His eyes snap open and meet familiar, yellow ones.

“Geralt!” He gasps, arm slackening in the other’s hold.

The wolf smiles and the luminosity of his eyes starts fading, blue bleeding into his irises. “Your reflexes have gotten better.”

Momentarily, he’s transported back to that room in Toddy’s castle, back to the days of training and trying to outmanoeuvre Geralt.

“You still stopped it,” He wiggles his fingers a little until he manages to lace them with Geralt’s. It hits him then that Geralt is still somehow, inexplicably, here. “What – Geralt? What are you doing here?”

“Said I’d be back, didn’t I?” Geralt smiles at him like he’s a bit daft and, really, he might as well be because he _doesn’t understand._

“Yeah, that struck me as odd, not going to lie. Though, I thought you meant it more in a weird, hypothetical way and not literally.” He chuckles and it sticks in his throat, he’s suddenly parched.

“No,” Geralt shakes his head. “I escorted the ladies to the portal and said my goodbyes.”

“You… I don’t understand. Geralt, what are you talking about?” He wheezes, feeling like he’s on the verge of hysterics with how tears spring to his eyes and his heart starts beating double-time.

“What’s bogging you down?” Geralt’s smile is entirely too easy. “I’m staying.”

“Here… with me?” He squeals, fingers now gripping the wolf’s hand as he tries to process the new information.

“Yes,” The wolf nods, one of his palms coming up to cup his cheek as his stare grows intense.

“Geralt, mate… that’s not – why?” He asks helplessly, disbelief still coursing through his mind rapidly.

“ _Mate_ ,” Geralt huffs, a grin curving his mouth at the corners and Jaskier’s a little stumped at how unfairly handsome it makes him – even more so than usual.

“You use that word often. It does not mean for you what it does for me, I know this. But… I’d gotten used to hearing it. I _like_ hearing it. I _want_ to hear it more often.” The wolf looks a little dazed as he admits this and Jaskier’s suddenly very aware that he’d basically been calling Geralt _husband_ for entirely too long.

He doesn’t get to dwell on this realisation, though, because his brain catches up with what Geralt had said. He _likes_ it?

“I know you can speak well, Geralt, so please speak plainly. For me.” He begs silently, his free hand cupping the one on his cheek.

“There is nothing for me left there. There is no greater purpose for me now that Cirilla is safe. She needs to stop depending on me and this separation will do her some good. I’ll miss her like I’d miss a limb but she needs to do this on her own. There’s nothing for me there.” The wolf leans forward, nose resting against Jaskier’s. “ _Here_ , however. _You’re_ here.”

“ _Me_?” He squeaks, fighting the urge to pull away in shock.

“You’re acting like you do not know?” Geralt is the one to pull his head back, a single, impressive eyebrow raised.

“Know what?” He’s pretty sure he knows. He suspects at the very least, has for a while now but he can’t bring himself to say it, to ask outright because the thought of rejection welds him to the ground with mortification.

“I want to-” Geralt grunts, cutting himself off as the words fail him. “I want _mate_ to mean for you what it means for me. I want to stay here with you.”

“But – your powers.” He falters, his other hand coming up to tangle with the other’s hair. “Your eyes are blue already.”

“I want to be human… with you. Here, in this world where I don’t have to watch out for monsters and men trying to maim and murder me. Where I can spend my time uselessly staring at your weird moving pictures. Where there’s no magic.” Geralt growls the last part of the sentence out.

“You’re staying.” He breathes out. “You’re staying?! You’re staying! With me!” He surges forward and Geralt lets himself be tackled onto the bed. He braces his hands on the other’s shoulders as Geralt stares up at him with a silly look on his face.

“I’m staying. And I’ll help you – with your family. Whatever you need.” Geralt offers and Jaskier is brought back to Earth, back to a reality that includes having to find somewhere to live and occasionally doing work for his brother and their newly-reformed family business.

“I, ah, took care of that actually.” He smiles, lowering his head down slowly towards Geralt. “I’d had some new experiences that helped put some things in perspective. And seeing as a kid that’s half my age could be brave and selfless when all she’d ever known was suffering, I thought that I should whine less and act more. So that’s what I did. The kingdom of the Pankratz is no more.”

“Just because your suffering was different, doesn’t mean it was lesser.” Geralt frowns up at him and he chuckles, nuzzling the other’s cheek.

“I know, love, but it still helped seeing her be that way. I dismantled the Count’s empire and patched things up with my brother in the process. Things are – pretty good right now, I must admit.” He smiles, pressing his lips against the wolf’s cheek. “Thank you, for everything. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for you two.”

“You would have been fine, little lark.” Geralt’s wide palm runs through his hair. “I should be the one thanking you. You’ve done so much for us, for people you’ve never seen before. For a world you don’t belong to.”

“It was the right thing to do.” He responds automatically. Though, he could claim it was for purely altruistic reasons but deep down inside he knows that all that he had done has been purely out of his fear for Ciri and Geralt’s lives. He’d killed and he’d survived so that Geralt and Ciri could live, so that Ciri could be free. Everything else was collateral and that single-minded focus had terrified him. Because it showed his roots better than anything else he’d done, it showed he was capable of being who his father had wanted him to be.

But he’d overcome that. Like Geralt had taught him, he’d used the tools he’d been given and he’d done _good_ with them.

“I couldn’t let the two of you get hurt.” He admits and Geralt smiles again, wide and gentle.

“Thank you.” Geralt repeats and Jaskier musters up the urge to finally stare into the other’s blue eyes.

He’s always hated eye contact. He’s always felt that whoever looked into his wide eyes could see his every thought and his every secret – and God knows he has plenty of those. He’s always avoided it if he could. He’d use various tactics to do it, too. He’d fidget and look off to the side, pretend to people-watch while whoever his interlocutor is talked. He’d be on his phone even though he knew it was rude because he never learned to hold his own in a stare-down like his brother had. His eyes were far too expressive for the business they’d been in and his father had always hated that.

But he meets Geralt’s eyes now; lets the other see whatever is there because it’s certainly nothing the other hadn’t smelled on him before.

“How about, as a show of thanks, you finally kiss me. That sound like a deal?” He quips past the lump in his throat and Geralt’s brows furrow.

“I assure you that, if I were to kiss you, I’d be out of more than just _thanks_.”

“Well, what are you waiting for then?” He challenges as heat pools low in his stomach, the simmering attraction he’s tried to suppress finally being allowed to flare bright and spring to the surface.

Geralt pulls him lower until they’re sharing air between them, warm and stuffy. “You always smell good,” The wolf huffs, “Going to miss the scent of you happy when my powers fade. The scent of the storm when you’re angry, the cloying scent of a burning fire when you’re _aroused.”_ Geralt purrs and Jaskier feels his insides shudder in turn.

“Better enjoy it while it lasts, then.” He presses down, bridging the gap between them and letting his hands slip from Geralt’s shoulders to grip the bed sheets as their lips meet.

It’s gentle, soft, nothing like he’d imagined before. Granted, he’d only ever imagined it in moments where Geralt looked particularly murderous or intense so those kisses would, naturally, be more violent, raw and _animalistic._ But this wasn’t such a situation, this was him, and Geralt, finally getting what they want for once.

He sighs into the kiss, tilting his head to the side and into Geralt’s wide palm. The rough, calloused, sword-wielding hands that always seem to know when he needs the grounding touch. The same hands that had saved him, taken care of him and comforted him when he’d been too panicked to breathe properly. He should have realized just how much he trusted Geralt sooner, he should have known that the wolf wouldn’t just leave him by his lonesome and that he wouldn’t be able to let the other go.

Geralt’s other hand makes its way down his side and settles on the jut of his hip, the thumb digging into the vee there, insistent and _pointed_. He groans, mouth slipping open and vulnerable to Geralt’s exploration. He takes it in stride, enjoying the feeling of his body relaxing properly for the first time in what seems like months.

“I can feel the tension,” Geralt mumbles against his cheek, the hand on the hip moving to his back and kneading at the muscles there. “This place smells like unease and tension even though you haven’t been here for long.”

“Stress is – not fun to deal with, no.” He admits, letting his body drop on top of the other, letting the wolf take his weight because he knows he weighs as much as a bowl of grapes to the other. “But it’ll get better now.”

“How come?” The wolf purses his lips and Jaskier can’t help the grin that breaks out on his face.

“Well, because you’re here, of course.” He croons, tangling a hand in the wolf’s silky hair.

“Sweet.” Geralt hums, eyes closing as he accepts Jaskier’s ministrations.

“And hopefully, soon this place won’t smell of unease and will instead be a little more smoke-y.” He winces at the warmth in his cheeks at his own bold words. He’s not usually forward but he’s not very shy either. But this is – this is Geralt and this means more than any random hook-up he’s had in the past.

Geralt’s eyes spark yellow for the briefest of seconds and Jaskier finds himself on his back with Geralt looming over him, the white hair curtaining around their heads. He stops breathing as he finally connects the dots on what that intense look on Geralt’s face means. Well – he’s always thought he knew but he was never certain.

“Why do you look at me like that? What’s inside your head, love?” He hushes, curious and hopeful.

“You,” The wolf growls out the single syllable and it sends sparks down Jaskier’s spine. “Always. All the time. More than you should be. When you’re laughing and smiling, when you’re worried and scared. When you’re just standing still with your hands fidgeting. It’s been you for quite a while and sometimes it gets to be too much. So I have to stop and concentrate on putting the thoughts – away.”

“Oh,” He smiles at the thought of Geralt compartmentalising when shit got to be too much. It’s sweet and God knows it’s _flattering._ The words send his heart into a tizzy again and his breathing grows more laboured.

“I hadn’t – I didn’t want to do anything. You were already so distraught and you were in a world where I was the only familiar person around. I did not want to – to trap you. To take advantage.” Geralt’s brows furrow and Jaskier reaches up to rub his thumb against the crease between them, smoothing the frown out.

“That’s very sweet of you, darling, but oh I would have let you do anything you wanted. Because I wanted – _something_ , too. But I thought – I thought that I’d have to leave that world and you behind. So I never let myself, well, think too much about it.”

“But I’m here to stay now.” Geralt lowers himself in a position that is reverse to the one they’d just been in and Jaskier lets his knees part, cradling the other’s hips between them.

“Yes.” He grins, “Which means no more suppressing whatever you’ve been thinking about. Which means – you get to do whatever you’ve been thinking about.”

With another mighty growl, Geralt surges down and bares his teeth against the side of his neck. He wheezes quietly, immediately baring his throat to the other.

“Too many clothes.” Geralt complains and Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.

“Yes, _yes._ Come on, off.” He wiggles in place until Geralt leans back and he can shed his coat. He drops the heavy thing onto the ground and winces as the medal he’d been awarded clinks against the floor. He’s distracted from checking on it, however, because Geralt is taking his dark shirt off and exposing the full breadth of his chest to the cool air of the room.

“Heavens,” He mumbles, forcing himself to take off his own sweater and shirt instead of reaching out and _fondling_ the other like he wants to. He rushes to rid himself of his clothes as Geralt wiggles out of his tight, leather pants.

It’s overall fairly awkward and he almost thinks himself into a panic attack as he takes off his boots but Geralt’s keen senses pick up on the panic coursing through him and he finds himself, once again, pulled back into a strong hug. He relaxes immediately, letting his head drop back until it’s resting on the other’s shoulder as Geralt’s palms press against his stomach and his chest.

“Breathe, little lark.” Geralt croons softly. “It’s alright, I’m here.”

He soaks in the heat radiating off the wolf and revels in the deep rumble of the other’s voice that he feels vibrating against his back. He doesn’t know what set him off but he surmises that it might be the thought that Geralt would leave after they do this which is both ridiculous and unlikely. His issues in regards to being left alone seem to run deeper than he thought - which is hardly a wonder.

“I’m okay, I’m alright.” He repeats out loud, flexing his fingers where they’ve ended up, gripping Geralt’s shapely thighs, to dispel the tingles in them. “Sorry, I – fuck, okay.” He sucks in a breath as Geralt starts tracing lazy patterns across the expanse of his abs. He mentally follows the patterning of the trailing palm and it calms him down more than he thought it would.

“You always worry me,” Geralt mumbles against the back of his neck. “Wish I could stow you away somewhere where no one can hurt you. Where you can finally feel safe.”

“Oh, Geralt.” He brings a hand up into the other’s hair, petting the wolf’s head. “I think – I think that we’re getting there. I think that I’ll feel safe as long as you’re there.”

“Always know what to say, _silvertongue_.” Geralt chuckles. “So full of words and contradictions.”

“Think someone should shut me up, then, huh?” He challenges now that he’s finally calmed down.

“I rather like the sound of your voice.”

“ _Geralt,”_ He whines, wiggling back against the other, trying to get the ball rolling.

“What do you want, little songbird?” Geralt’s nose pushes under the hinge of his jaw, teeth meeting skin again.

“Mm, touch me?” He asks hopefully, fingers tensing against Geralt’s arm that’s still resting across his torso.

“Where?” Geralt’s fingers trail down from his collar bones, pressing against the skin and warming him up.

“Anywhere, wherever you’d like.” He arches his back, encouraging Geralt’s groping as the hand travels down at a lazy pace. He wishes the other would hurry because he really needs to stop thinking. He wiggles back again, pausing briefly when he feels the other pressing into him, at half mast and – well, quite _large_. He whines, and Geralt’s fingers press into the bruises he’d already left on his hip.

“Wherever I’d like?” Geralt purrs and he nods eagerly.

“Yes, _yes.”_ He shudders with anticipation, cock twitching at the thought of Geralt’s large, firm hands caressing his skin.

Geralt’s hands span across his sides, “Here?”

“Yes,” He nods, looking down where the calloused fingers are tapping a distracted pattern against him.

One of the hands moves to his thigh, kneading the muscle there and he groans. The leg relaxes under the other’s ministrations like the betrayer that it is and he grips the other’s hair firmly. His stomach churns with arousal and it feels like he’s on a rollercoaster hurling down a steep slope. It’s gotten significantly warmer in their little bubble since they started but he still feels the brush of cold air against his bare legs.

The hand on his thigh moves inwards, towards his crotch. Geralt hooks his chin over his shoulder so that they can both watch as fingers close around his girth. He whines embarrassingly loud, half from the sensation of the grip and half from the look of it all.

“Here?” The wolf growls, deep and primal and setting off all kinds of bells in Jaskier’s system that are both good and _really_ good.

“ _Yes,”_ He hisses. He feels a little pathetic, being reduced to a single word like this but the other’s touch feels so good already that he can barely string together a coherent thought.

He muses idly that this is what weeks, _months_ , of unresolved sexual tension and frustration finally being resolved feels like. He’s light-headed, honestly, on cloud fucking nine. Geralt’s hand moves up slowly and Jaskier winces at the dry drag.

“Fuck, wait,” He pushes the hand away and tosses himself to the side, rummaging through the nightstand frantically until his palm closes around the bottle of lube. He cheers internally and flips around to straddle Geralt’s lap. The wolf huffs, nosing under his chin as he pops the bottle open.

“Slick?” Geralt asks and he hums, _slick,_ a silly way of putting – very quaint, but it does make a shiver go down his spine. He flushes again and Geralt rumbles – he can only imagine what the other must be smelling.

He wiggles back a little until he has the other’s hard length pressing against his own and then sucks in a breath. He gathers them both up in his hand and breathes out steadily, curbing his excitement at the fact that he’s finally getting his hands on Geralt like this.

“Mm,” The other purrs idly as he starts moving his hand up and down at a languid pace and then Jaskier feels teeth clamp down onto the spot where his shoulder meets his neck.

His entire body jolts forward at the sting of the bite and he _swears_ the teeth feel _sharp_. But instead of hurting enough to wilt his erection, it only fuels the fire in the pit of his stomach. His hand spasms around their lengths and his stroking falters momentarily. He can just _imagine_ sharp canines piercing skin and Geralt’s lush mouth bloodied red, smearing the precious liquid over his skin. Ah. Hello, new kinks.

“Oh, hells.” He shudders all over as Geralt licks at the bruise he’d sucked into his neck.

“There,” The wolf declares with a healthy dose of pride in his tone. “Now everyone will know.”

“Fuck,” He chuckles, flush with arousal at the possessive declaration. “Been wanting to do that, huh?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Geralt admits without pause, hands roaming across his back and pressing bruises into the skin there as well. “Since I first saw you step in front of Ciri to protect her, since I first saw you stand up to the prince and to Yen.”

“Stop name-dropping, you’re ruining the mood.” He whines and Geralt huffs out a brief laugh before his teeth go back to worrying the skin at his disposal.

He refocuses on the task at hand – that being, _well._

The nasty squelching sound grows louder as his strokes pick up speed again and he twitches all over as his hand twists around them. Geralt’s groan rumbles through him and he grows dizzy with how fast his blood is being redirected into his dick. He has to stop before he blows his load because this is definitely not how he wants this night to end.

“Christ, Geralt. Gimmie your hand.” He holds the bottle up and Geralt’s blue eyes darken further as he realizes what Jaskier is requesting of him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls out briefly before claiming his mouth in another bruising kiss that has Jaskier breathless in a matter of minutes.

The prep is perhaps a little too fast and too rough. Geralt’s hands are big and his fingers thick and Jaskier loses track of time as the other stretches him out. His ears are ringing with the sound of his pulse pounding and his own reedy moans as Geralt’s fingers decidedly do not relent. He feels every push and pull, every bump against that sweet spot, like a jolt of electricity up his spine and like flames licking at his fingertips.

“Perfect,” Geralt praises out of the blue and Jaskier’s eyes snap open to meet the other’s.

“I-” He chokes back a moan as Geralt lifts him by the hips like he weighs nothing and manhandles him until his head is resting on the soft pillow at the headboard and the other is keeling between his legs.

Geralt looks down at him and he shivers at the intensity of the stare. He wants to urge the other to _just do something already_ but he’s afraid to break the delicate and heavy silence that’s settled over them – it feels like velvet against his skin.

“I didn’t even do anything” He whines, hips lifting as Geralt refuses to move.

“No, you don’t have to do anything. You’re beautiful and perfect even without doing anything.” The wolf grins with his teeth sharp and Jaskier has a moment to absorb his words of praise before the teeth clamp down over his hip and he earns himself a matching mark to the one on his neck. He whines, erection twitching and protesting at being neglected.

“Fuck!” He slaps a hand against the mattress. “Please, _please_ , Geralt. Come on.”

“Let me have this,” The wolf continues to ignore his pleas and instead drags his lips down the crease of his thigh and noses at his dick. He – well, there’s very little that’s going through his head at the sight but the thought of getting his length inside the other’s mouth somehow manages to make itself present. But he doesn’t; not today, at least.

“ _Geralt_ ,” He groans uselessly and it draws another chuckle out of the wolf.

“Alright, love, alright.” The wolf cedes and Jaskier lifts his head up to see the other fisting his own hard length, spreading the slick all over and dripping messily onto the bed.

The prep was _definitely_ a little too haphazard and he winces and hisses at the sting but Geralt doesn’t relent and he doesn’t want him to. He relaxes and accepts the other’s hardness. His eyes are closed so hard he sees stars by the time the other is fully in and his breaths are coming out in short, frantic pants.

“Shh,” Geralt shushes him, form looming over him and a hand brushing hair from his forehead.

He fights to take in air until he finally does so with a great lungful. He focuses on the other’s warmth and the cold air drifting from the rest of the room, focuses on the other’s soft murmurs and words of praise until he finally relaxes.

“Good,” The wolf kisses his forehead and Jaskier finally opens his eyes again. The dawn is breaking over the treeline and the first rays are making it through the big windows, casting Geralt’s body in a faint glow that seems almost heavenly.

He smiles, reaching up and tucking a strand of that pale hair behind the other’s ear. Geralt’s quite beautiful like this – in that rough, ragged way of his. He’s all solid abdominals and bulging biceps, thighs thick and spreading Jaskier’s legs purposefully.

“You can move, love.” He instructs and Geralt bends down to kiss him briefly before leaning back and concentrating on the first few thrusts.

The other goes slow at first. Measure movements that take a lot of self-restraint. Jaskier sees the way that tension laces the other’s frame, almost like he’s a coiled spring ready to release. But he enjoys the slow drag of Geralt’s dick too much to tell him to speed up.

The slow pace is not sustainable, however, because Geralt grows impatient soon. The wolf begins rumbling lowly and Jaskier grins at the dangerous sound, clenching around the other’s hardness and arching his back with a moan that’s more showy than anything.

“ _Julian,”_ The wolf warns and Jaskier laughs breathlessly, reaching forward to wipe the drop of sweat that’s making its way down the other’s temple.

“You can speed up, darling, it’s fine.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Geralt’s hips start picking up speed rapidly. He finds himself being bounced up and down the other’s dick in a matter of minutes and he can’t even really tell how he ended up in the other’s lap again. Geralt’s thighs put in the work and his hips keep pistoning back and forth and he can’t form anything even remotely resembling a thought again.

He whines, moans and mewls and then bites at the other’s shoulder to keep himself silent because he’s embarrassed. He’s slick with sweat and his erection is rubbing against the divot between the other’s abs and he can’t, for the life of him, hold on any longer.

His hands claw against the other’s back and he moans loudly as the orgasm washes over him. His body spasms and he shudders and it just keeps going, cresting and overflowing for what seems like an eternity. His hands have gone stiff where they’re clutching at the other and Geralt _doesn’t stop._

“Close,” The wolf bites out and Jaskier knows that clean-up is going to be a bitch but he doesn’t particularly care about that at the moment. He rides the waves of his orgasm and feels as Geralt finally comes because the wolf stills, buried inside him to the hilt, and releases a sound that is entirely too animalistic to be produced by human vocal cords.

Much to his mortification, Jaskier finds himself on his front with his ass up in the air in a matter of moments.

“What – Geralt!” He squeaks because the other’s fingers are back in his ass, quickly being joined by a tongue. “Oh, fuck!” He shouts as his dick makes a valiant effort at getting hard again so soon.

Instead of cleaning him off, however, Geralt ends up smearing his come along Jaskier’s back in a savage and rudimentary display of ownership that has Jaskier half incensed and _half hard._

“You filthy, possessive, incredibly attractive savage.” He whimpers into the pillow as the other finally allows him to drop down and rest.

The other plasters himself to his side and trails his fingers through the disgusting mess.

“Mine,” The wolf declares and Jaskier can’t bring himself to protest.

“Yes, you brute, yours.” He chuckles as the bone-deep exhaustion finally settles over him.

“Now and always.” Geralt’s fucking _erection_ nudges against him and he winces. 

“Now and until you piss me off, let me sleep you insatiable-”

“Shh.”

* * *

Valentin is eyeing him like he’s lost his damned mind.

“You’re _what_?” His brother asks, obviously trying very hard to keep his voice level as to not cause a scene at the airport.

“I’m taking the private jet to London.” He deliberately doesn’t explain the part that the other is perplexed over.

“Yes, that part is clear. I’m still stumped about the part where you’re moving to America to buy a ranch.” His brother’s hand clenches around the pack of smokes in it and the paper crumbles.

“That’s not what I said.” He rolls his eyes. “You never listen to me. I said: we’re moving to Alaska to open up a wolf sanctuary.”

“Same shit,” Valentin gives in and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You and the gardener-”

“Geralt.”

“You and _Geralt_ , are getting married?”

“Yes, as soon as possible.” He glances back to where the ex-wolf is standing next to the plane. Jaskier had managed to outfit him in a black sweater and a long, black coat and he now cuts an imposing figure that makes people look away in fear wherever he goes.

His brother sighs, obviously put-upon but resigned. “Well, make sure to invite us to the wedding when it happens, yeah?”

“Of course, I’ll need a best man, after all.” He grins and his brother rolls his eyes.

“Take care, Jules, call once in a while.” The other wags a finger in front of his face and Jaskier pulls him into a crushing hug that startles the shorter.

“I’ll text you when we get settled and I’ll even name our first wolf after you.”

“That’s not necessary, I-”

“You’ll be their godfather!”

“Jaskier,” Valens says it as if it were a reprimand but he’s smiling so the effect is lost entirely.

“Take care, call if you need help, good luck.”

“You as well.”

They board the plane and Jaskier finds that Geralt is not very fond of flying inside a giant, metal bird. Maybe they’ll get horses for the sanctuary as well.

It’s funny, thinking about it all seems so easy now when he knows what he wants when a year ago he would have been plagued with the thoughts of his home and his family and how they hated him. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for what he went through but he wouldn’t change anything about it either. Well, perhaps he would have jumped Geralt sooner if he knew that the wolf was here to stay but other than that, no, nothing.

And for the first time in a long while, Jaskier can say, with a lot of certainty, that he’s happy and looking forward to the future, and that he has no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think imma be taking a bit of a break from writing, this took a lot out of me and i realized i didnt wanna write smut anymore bc its boring so when i do come back, it'll be with mostly plot-oriented fics.  
> I hope y'all enjoyed this and as always hmu on any of the social medias if ya wanna, peace!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me on tumblr and twitter @ marionettefthjm


End file.
